The Luxury and the Necessity
by Devanrae
Summary: Post-Games, life slowly returns to normal in District 12. Katniss, healing, finally begins to turn to Peeta for affection and accept his love. Post-MJ Canon. Alternate K&P POV. M for LEMONS! 2nd place best multi-chapter, 3rd place best in-progress, 2013 Everlark Smut Awards! Check out my interview with Jenie!: : / / sheafofarrows(dot)tumblr(dot)com/post/57891010312/ devanrae
1. Luxury and Necessity

It's a luxury, if anything is anymore, and it's also a necessity, though I don't let that lessen it for me. It never has. When you've dreamt of the smell of someone's hair for ten years, spent hours lying awake before dawn just trying to imagine what it would feel like to gently undo it from its long braid and comb it out with your fingers, just that one image alone, consuming—would it be soft? Thick? Lush? What would it feel like wound around your fingers tightly? What about the soft feathers of down at the nape?—time is relative. I was grateful from the first moment I spoke, buried under layers of blessed protective mud and leaves, from the riverbank of our first Games, and witnessed the flood of relief, fear, and determination that flashed across those storm-grey eyes. _I'll be okay_, I thought, and the surge of comfort would have made me weak at the knees if I hadn't already been. The pain, the terror of what I was sure would be a quiet death alone, trapped in that hell, vanished at that stubborn look of awareness.

I never had reservations about admitting to myself or anyone else that of the two of us, Katniss is the bravest and most determined. What I wanted most in the world, lying on my back each day watching the light dawn and wane and flicker through the green leaves above as I tried to remain as still as I could, was just that presence—her presence. I didn't want to die alone. It was more than I could hope for, all that came after. There's not a day I wake that I don't feel lucky, for every little moment I've had with her besides that. Katniss would scoff at the notion of true love, because she has no room for that type of sentimentality. Katniss had one true love alone, and when she was lost, that was all. The world, for a long time, went quiet for her. Only very recently, only after her admission of love in the face of all my confusion and heartache, just once, do I know I have made it further than I'd even dreamt. I see something new in her casual glances, sometimes. A question. Or maybe an answer. As far as matters of the heart go, I've learned to let her go her own way, a concession that feels more like a demand, since even if I stepped in her way, she'd shy away, avert her eyes and her answers. It's okay. It's a luxury, and it's also a necessity.

Katniss and I have returned, as much as you can call it that. With so few of us here, in such a different physical and political climate, having endured all we have and suffered all we must, having bowed to the whims of loss and death and fought our way back, increment by increment, here we are, inasmuch as we can be anywhere, I suppose. We are not the same. Katniss' long braid has been singed to her shoulders, and out of convenience she mostly just ties it with a hank of rawhide in a loose ponytail until it gets longer. I have a feeling braids remind her of Prim, now, too. She averts her eyes from the very few…very few…children with Prim's light coloring that we ever encounter, however much or little they look like her sister. The final scars from the fire she fiercely refused to let the Capitol's magic medicine remove, as though she could carry them as a form of penance, all her life. Or maybe they remind her that she survived against the odds. I don't know. She's mute much of the time about a lot of it. One side of her throat—the right—and her shoulder and arm are all new pink skin growth that will never quite line up with the old. Unlike other parts of her, it refuses the fine, downy growth of dark hair that sprouts on her limbs. She…as I am…is more easily startled by loud noises, constantly wary. Her eyes flick about, rarely ever able to settle on only one thing or person at once. She has days where she can't get out of bed and won't see anyone; just remains remote and mute, monosyllabic to let us know she's alive, as Greasy Sae's best offerings, left on trays, remain at her door. I've seen her like this only once. She curls in a tight ball, her eyes blank on the wall. At these times, I know her mind plays pictures she doesn't want to see against that wall like a screen.

The doctors from the Capitol have medicine that will make them go, but after the amount of medication that went forcibly into Katniss following the second Games, it's a point of pride and disgust that she refuses it. Katniss is brave that way, too. It's all that can be done to make sure she keeps in regular contact with her doctor, and that only because she fears getting airlifted out and placed in another hospital far away. She did, after all, choose to come back. Lying in the dark one night, wrapped in my arms, her face turned away, she asks me a rhetorical question, and it is this: "Where would I go, Peeta?" she asks. "My mother is gone. Gale is gone. Pr…" She stops. I stroke that magnificent hair, so lovely at any length, tenderly play with the ragged ends. I know what she's thinking about. She doesn't have to say anything else. This is the necessity—that out of everyone in the world to whom we could speak about these horrors, only each other can really understand. No one, no one who hadn't been there with us could be made to know.

Sometimes, I'm ashamed to admit, on the worst days, the days my fists clench and my muscles ache from the strain of shaking and being taut for hours on end, I give in and take one of their magic pills. It takes about an hour. Then a flat blankness, an uncaring sort of indifference, replaces my pain and fear. It's a feeling I dislike, and I take them only in my darkest moments, and only during the day, when Katniss is usually off in the woods alone, hunting or swimming or sitting and hiding, consoled by the familiarity even as she weeps for what's been lost. There's no mistaking her red eyes when she comes out, however hard she tries to hide them. Some days she goes in for 12 or 14 hours at a time yet comes out with no game, no plants. I wouldn't expect her to be hunting that **entire** time, but I keep hoping she'll come out with **something.** Those days, I think that she might just curl up and sleep in there, cradled in the green of home.

I resent it, just a little, as much as I try not to. My home…everything I considered a home…is gone. My family is gone, in a more final way than Katniss', though it hurts no more, I think. I am changed, too; how could any of us not be? Like Katniss, I have scars that were not there only a few years ago. I've carelessly let my hair grow long and it hangs over my eyes. The stump where my leg ends pains me on dreary days, or when I've been in motion for long hours, as the prosthetic scratches and rubs and needs regular adjustment. The Capitol, with all its medical technology, could not bring back what they took. They could not make me myself again—only I can do that, if I ever manage. I don't get the fits of depression that take Katniss, but the hallucinations still hit, whenever I smell a certain hint of something I might not even be able to place, if the light hits Katniss a certain way or if she moves too fast. My heart breaks a little for this; I never before and never want to, would never choose to, be vicious towards her, not even in my heart. But it's not always me. She knows. It's a reflection of the care she makes a concerted effort not to show that she never anymore holds it against me. She talks me down, when she's around to see it coming. "Peeta, Peeta," she says my name, softly. Her eyes grow lighter, her brow furrowed with concern, and she holds both hands out to me.

Once, when a particularly terrible vision came of me lying in the cave, our cave, bleeding to death while Katniss, holding the medicine that would save my life, waved it above me, laughing and snarling, calling down insults and taunts, stabbing at my gaping, bleeding wound with the toes of her boots as I howled in pain, I close my eyes and begin to shake my head so hard it hurts. "No, no, NO!" I scream into the empty kitchen. Katniss is not there, but then she is, suddenly, her slight frame wrapping around my shaking, sobbing form, her face buried deep in the hollow of my shoulder, and I feel it: the gentlest of kisses on my jaw as she whispers in my ear, "Not real, not real, not real….Peeta, Peeta." I sag. When I give over my full weight to her, she holds me there in the shifting shafts of sunlight, and we cry together. Necessity. I used to need her. I do need her. But I have suspected for a long time that she now needs me too. I don't want her to need me only because the others in her life have gone, yet I am powerless in the face of her own need. When we're apart, we cope with life, live the lives we are still very lucky to have. We are both far older than 18, really. My hallucinations come, and I clench my fists together, repeat my mantras over and over in my head, and paint. I paint and paint and paint, walls, canvasses, my own skin sometimes if the whim hits me. I paint the Games, I paint the war, I paint Katniss. I paint my dreams. And she hunts. We make a way. We have to. But it's easier, not to be alone.

The dreams take us both. Katniss' doctor says it would be worse to try to avoid them, to take something to suppress them, that they are a sign of healing, of moving beyond. "It's easy for him to say," Katniss snarls after one unsatisfying phone conversation. Uncommonly for her, she puts her face in both her hands. I'm over her house that morning, baking her bread and flipping eggs. Katniss forgets to eat often now, and I dislike when I can see the sharp angles of hips emerging. I leave my food and go to her, reaching out a tentative hand to touch that one scarred arm. She flinches, and then, because I cannot help myself, I take her fully into my arms. She doesn't resist, whether because she has no resistance left or because she wants it, needs it, I do not know. But it is a luxury, so I take it, and so does she. I rock her in the kitchen and whisper to her hair. It's a strange new feeling; it just being us. Of course, the usual suspects abound…Haymitch can be counted on to drop by and check on us several times a week, Greasy Sae, like me, makes sure that Katniss especially continues to eat when she slips into her funks. Many from the town have come back with us. But our overseers are gone. Some nights when she slips so silently into my bed, I have to remember that there are no more cameras, no more eyes, that it can for the first time be just she and I, a rare phoenix rising from so many ashes.

Because of the dreams, she sleeps here more and more, now. Her stubborn independence used to dictate that she insisted on sleeping alone many nights, but she would awake screaming so loudly I could hear her two houses down. I would find her sitting on her steps in the dark, alone, rocking back and forth and whispering, sometimes to herself or her sister, sometimes to Finnick or her mother. I could never catch anything other than snippets.

One particularly bad night, I find her this way in the snow, wearing only a long tunic, barefoot and shivering in the cold, one icy tear snaking down her cheek. Without asking, I scoop her up into my arms and carry her inside my own house. The room I've chosen for my own has a fireplace. I lie her down on a blanket in front of the smoldering embers and rub her hands and feet vigorously as the dreamy, pained, dead look slowly drains from her eyes. Goosebumps cover her whole skin, and I try to avert my eyes as the tips of her breasts push up against the thin tunic fabric. I feel my cheeks go pink and I twitch, just once, inadvertently, inside my pajama pants. This isn't the first time Katniss had gotten this literal rise out of me…not by a long shot…and I know it won't be the last. Even without the close proximity we now commonly found ourselves in, even as a young teenager before all had unfolded, I used to lie awake at night thinking about her skin, her luminous eyes, that long, dark hair, lips coming closer and whispering my name, and my hands and hormones would make decisions of their own accord and tug my aching erection gently free of its confines, finding a familiar rhythm until I had to turn my face quickly into my pillow to release the soft sounds that poured out as my breathing quickened and thick, sticky molten fluid exploded across my belly. Now, I've more control of myself, at least…I'm terrified, mostly, of frightening her away. I remember teasing Katniss so long ago about her purity, how nettled she became at the suggestion. There have been times we've barely maintained friendship; as badly as I want her—and I do—I won't risk it. The hard-won care and intimacy that's come between us has developed on her terms. Only after more than two years has she cautiously begun to offer up more of her trust to me.

"Why?" she asks me, lying back on the soft blanket as her frozen skin slowly thaws under my ministrations.

"Why, what?" I ask back, preoccupied.

"Why?" she repeats, then mumbles, looking away, "I'm so broken."

We haven't kissed in many months, in all the months of recovery and homecoming and readjustment, in all the months we'd laid together, her back to my chest, curled in each other's warmth and safety, chasing away the nightmares. But my willpower isn't endless. And so, I tilt downward cautiously, my blue eyes chasing those grey ones I love, and I graze her ear so softly with my lips as I whisper, "Me, too."

She turns sharply so that her face is only an inch from mine. I see many conflicting emotions playing there in the emberlight. Fear, confusion, misery…and something else, too. I'm not imagining it. Katniss' face is so expressive it's hard to project anything onto it, for which I'm grateful. What I see is a type of pleading, a need. I reach up and slowly stroke her hair with my left hand as I balance on the other, leaning in. I burrow my fingers into it, wind strands around my hand the way I used to dream of, and she bites her lip, then parts them. I see it there, again…the need. She looks younger. Her body is tense, from the dreams, from the Games, from what? What else lurks for her? I've been an open book all along; there's nothing she could ask me that I wouldn't tell her, nothing I can think of. She remains enigmatic. But in that moment of utmost vulnerability, I can no longer help myself. I chase the flicker of need, of heat, by lowering my parted lips to hers. She makes a sound like a whisper or a sigh and lies back down, reaching up for me, pulling me down to her. Her soft, pliant tongue laps out for only a moment, shyly, tentatively poking at my lower lip, and that growling, surging leap of lust howls inside my head like a muttation, strong and demanding. I quake inwardly at the thought that it may, also like a muttation, surge free if I let it, wild and untamable.

"Katniss," I whisper into her mouth.

"Peeta," she whispers back, and I let myself, just for a few moments, lose my resolve, and just be a teenager, something I've heard about, I think wryly, in passing, but never actually experienced. Our legs twine together, her soft bare calves below the tunic winding into my worn, loose pants, and for a fleeting second, I wonder what it would be like if I too were barelegged. Skin on skin. I whimper, so quietly I think she didn't hear it, but Katniss' hunter's ears miss nothing now, and her hands slide up the rasping blonde stubble of my cheeks, cupping my face gently in her hands as that insistent tongue peeks again, a little less shyly. I meet it with mine, stroking softly, trying desperately not to let my body take and take and take. I am the Boy on Fire tonight…or we both are, our skin glowing a delicate orange-red in the almost-darkness of the embers. I tremble as I feel her press up into me as the kisses deepen, become more languid, our open mouths teasing and testing and working together. She slips her tongue into mine more fully, and when I meet it, she makes a tiny sound inside my mouth. My hands are tangled deep in that dark hair, and it feels silky and thick and smells like woodsmoke and snowflakes and Katniss.

One of her legs slips between mine, and I jump. She draws back a little, panting, but only with her mouth. Her body has moved, involuntarily I guess, up against mine: she has pushed herself off the ground and we are pressed frankly together from chest to legs. She hasn't yet noticed, but this strong, long, roving thigh is too close. She pushes my hair from my eyes. "What?" she asks, sounding insecure, and I see the uncertainty there, as the shades begin to close, protecting her own potential embarrassment, which she would not allow. "Hey, hey," I whisper, taking her mouth again, unable to help myself. The reason I jumped is, of course, because she lingers perilously close now to discovering my erection, which is aching and twitching and throbbing worse than it has since that night on the beach in our second Games, the second night I felt the true force of her desire. This is only the third. My balls feel like they're filled with liquid lead. Even the contact between my cock and the fabric of my pants rubs so tantalizingly, I want to buck myself up against it, just to have something stroke me there. I almost lose my mind picturing Katniss unclothed across these blankets, reaching up for me…

I try to shift but it's clear that unless I lift myself off and away from her, there's nowhere to go. I sigh inwardly. Oh, how much fun, being a boy. I lean down and trail little kisses across her cheeks and forehead and chin. But Katniss being Katniss, she won't be misled. "What?" she asks again, a note of suspicion in her voice. I have to remind myself that, as far as I know, Katniss is treading unknown ground when we touch each other like this, that she might not even know. "Um…" I start, awkwardly, "Katniss, I…I'm not always in control of my body," I let out in a rush. "And I'm sorry, I don't want you to feel bad or like I'm taking advantage of you or anything, I just can't…you're so beautiful, and you feel so good, you can't imagine…I just can't…help myself," I finish lamely. My cheeks are scarlet, I can feel it. My disgruntled erection doesn't seem to notice, and remains. But I can see dawning understanding rising in Katniss' eyes and I think, at least, thank god, she knows what I mean and I don't have to give any further anatomy lessons. "That's all?" she asks, quizzically. "All?" I say, and I laugh a little, despite myself. "Isn't that enough?"

I'm shocked when she pulls me down again, with a little smile playing around her mouth. I resist a little, a protest forming in my mouth, but before it can make it out, she shifts her thigh deliberately again and I feel the smooth, firm flesh of it pressed into my ache. I exhale sharply, involuntarily, and she suppresses what almost looks like a smirk. "Katniss, I don't…" I protest, "I don't want to not….want to…stop." _So articulate_, my inner voice sneers. "It's okay," she whispers, but I squirm uncomfortably. I love her so much. I don't want her to do anything she'd regret. I don't want to hurt her, god, please don't let me hurt her. But then, her eyes are fierce, and she locks them onto my own, and her voice is soft and hard all at once. "It's okay," she whispers reassuringly, and she uses the leverage of her own leg, a gentle left hand, and my surprise to turn me over and off of her. I breathe out. Good, I think, okay, better this way, disappointing, but…

Then Katniss swings one of those strong legs over me and suddenly, I'm prone, and she's straddling me, before I have a moment to think or pray or thank the heavens for the richest luxury I never could have imagined. She smiles. "Better?" she asks, playfully. I haven't heard that tone of play in her voice in…I don't even remember. Ages. Before the war, before Prim, before. That tone alone reassures me, because it's one of healing. It is her own eyes I see watching me, and they are not unaware, but keen and bright and focused. She studies me, like she might study unfamiliar game. "Life's going to move on," she says softly. "Peeta, I…I want to feel things, good things, with you, right now. I think I can. Okay?" That flicker, again. She says it like it's the first time she's telling herself, too, questioningly. There's only one answer. "Okay," I sigh, and she leans down and nips my earlobe experimentally, then sucks it gently into her mouth, tonguing it and catching it between her teeth, never hard. My breathing feels ragged and uneven. I need her to anchor me to this Earth. My hands beg, and I release them to stroke, down the back of her neck, through those delicate wisps of hair, over her sharp shoulderblades, down her back, only the thin fabric of her tunic and underwear between us, until they settle at her waist. It's so small they can almost wrap around it entirely. She begins trailing light kisses along my jawbone and down my neck as her other hand cups my cheek, her thumb stroking over and over the stubble there.

I feel the tension, the constant tension, begin to drain from me, impossible to hold, except that which gathers in my groin and will not be ignored. She is magnificent in the slanting moonlight through the window. She licks tentatively along my collarbone, dipping her tongue into the hollows, and I whimper. She likes this, I can tell, and continues up my throat, arched back for her access, until she meets my lips again. "You taste good," she murmurs through them, "Like spices and honey." "Oh, Katniss, please," I beg, not knowing what I'm begging for. She smiles, a half-smile, and reaches down to tug at the hem of my undershirt. I try to halt her again, involuntarily, it almost seems, but she pushes my hand away, lifts it, kisses the palm. "I want to feel you," she says. I don't resist as she tugs it up and over my head. For a moment, she simply lies down, her head on my bare chest, inhaling the scent of my body. I can smell her hair and I lean down, plant desperate kisses in its sweetness. Her fingers come up curiously, stroking through the fine blonde hair that covers my body. Her fingers catch on a nipple and my arms, which have wrapped themselves around her and pulled her in close, tighten involuntarily. She notices, and tentatively reaches out again, brushing callused tips over the most sensitive places on my chest.

Before I have time to register what is happening, she turns her head and places a kiss on the tip of the left one, and I sigh. Then I gasp as I feel her hot mouth encircling it, drawing it in, suckling gently. The sensation spreads like hot liquid through my chest, up into my throat, closing it, and down and down. I've never felt this before. She can't feel my erection from where she perches just above my hips, but it's hard as stone. The only thing I can think is, if her mouth feels so good _there_…what would it feel like wrapped around my cock? I shiver. I want it…I want her…so bad. All of her. I want us to consume each other here in this spot, all night, all the next night, all every night. I feel a surge of possessiveness over her that I can't help. _Mine_, I think.

And then the capacity to form thoughts is gone, wiped clean like a blackboard, in the face of what comes next. Katniss leans up and kisses me, fiercely, pulling my head close to hers, her teeth nipping my lower lip aggressively, sucking it out. It's all I can do to match her. This is Katniss' night, her plans. Perhaps she thinks this will help us heal. Insofar as it's making all my fears and bad memories dissipate, she's right. I feel stronger just for her closeness. I feel more myself. I can't imagine that I ever thought this girl was out to hurt me. She's gentle even in her fierceness. It's hard for her to admit to love, but I feel it in the insistent way she's touching me now, wrapping herself in me and the warmth and the sensation. Katniss rarely does things she doesn't want to do.

As her mouth slides down, trailing those kisses down my chest, she moves to my belly, tracing the line of hair down its hard surface with her mouth, and I groan. I can't help it. When she takes the hem of my pajama pants and begins to ease them down, I don't have it in me to protest. "Yes," I whisper. I'm reveling in every single second, promising myself I must remember them forever. How did this night begin? I don't even remember. I can see Katniss' wide eyes in the moonlight as I spring free, finally. I think she's surprised. I feel a little panicked, self-conscious. All of me lies bare, and she is watching, watching in a way that I never thought she would, both for lack of interest and for her general discomfort with nudity. The first thing she does after easing down the rest of my clothes is begin to slowly work her fingers into the clasps holding my prosthetic leg in place. She's seen me do this many, many times and her nimble fingers accomplish it with ease. I let her do it, but I blush. She seems to sense my discomfort and looks up to me. "I want the real Peeta," she says, by way of explanation, "Not the Capitol creation." The stump of my leg seems more apparent than ever, and I feel vulnerable. Her gentle fingers caress the sensitive, sore skin where the leg ends, just below the knee. Then, as if trying to help me be at ease, she kisses her fingertips and touches it, then reaches up just to the bed above us and draws down a spare blanket. Shaking it over us, she continues easing down my body, her lips just inches from my skin. When she lifts herself backwards and over my throbbing cock, it just grazes the soft inside of her thigh under her tunic before bouncing free. I feel better with the blanket over us, safer, more intimate, somehow, with her, but there's only one thing that will stem this ache, and either she has to do it soon or I do, because it's been ages already and my breath is coming in short pants.

But then one of those strong little hands closes around my shaft, and I push up into it before I can think, arching my back and pressing my palms hard against the floor. My eyes close. All I can feel is this one thing, this one little hand, gripping me, not hard. It's still tentative, but she moves it up to the crown slowly, slick with the steady drip that's been coming since she kissed me. She runs her thumb over the slit, eliciting a hiss from me. She's quizzical. "Peeta," she murmurs to me, "Why…?" I know what she wants to know, but I can barely get out the words. "Because I want you so badly," I whisper helplessly. I risk a glance. A slow, gratified smile creeps onto the corners of her mouth.

"Tell me," she says, "Tell me what feels good. Tell me what it feels like." I've never been asked this before, but I've touched myself enough times to know the answer to at least the first question.

"Grip a little harder," I get out, and she responds instantly. I groan. She watches my face and body to register whether that's good or not, then moves a little more confidently. She slides her hand up and down, adding a little twist at the crown before returning. I moan her name with abandon. I'm hers. I can't even imagine how we got here, but here I am, my beautiful love's hands on me. She moves a little faster, and the hand that's not working me, so lightly, moves to cup my balls, rolling them and weighing them as though trying to figure them out. The ache is both soothed and ignited again.

"Katniss…" I plead, "I won't last…long…" She doesn't seem to take heed of this, and I realize she's concentrating on what she's doing, on giving me pleasure. I wonder about her own pleasure, want to give her something back, but it's clear she's most comfortable….unsurprisingly…being in charge of this foray. I'm not in a position to complain. She rubs her palm in small circles over the wetness at the tip.

"How does it feel?" she asks me quietly.

"Better than anything. Please, don't stop, please," I beg breathlessly. She nods and leans down to kiss my hipbone as she strokes. It's more than I can bear, that feathery touch of her soft lips as she works me, and I begin to gasp as I feel myself twitch in her hand. I'm too pent-up. A thick, hot jet flushes out of me and over my stomach before I can even warn her. I come for a long time, arched into the air, whispering her name. Small explosions happen in my stomach as the ache leaves me. She slows but doesn't stop touching me, and I realize in amazement that I don't think she wants to stop. But after a little while, she scootches up next to me and gazes up.

"Okay?" she asks. I laugh a breathless laugh to her, my own semen still drying slowly on my belly, and immediately cup her cheek and lean over, kissing her, so tenderly. I feel the lithe relaxed state of her body, miraculously, the nightmares gone, the worries gone. Somehow, she's had a release too, of another kind.

"Thank you, Katniss…." I can barely get the words out because they don't seem adequate. She mulls this over and then smiles with teeth, "It was kind of fun," she admits. I didn't expect this. "You didn't have to, it would have been fine," I make myself say.

"I wanted to," she answers.

"What about you?" I ask. She laughs and in response, takes my hand and again, to my shock, brings it down languidly and presses my fingers, before I can stop her, between her legs, against the thin cotton of her underwear. The flesh there is piping hot and the fabric is soaked. I don't know much about women, not in this way, but I know what I'm feeling, and I groan, already, after five minutes, wanting more, wanting to try out all we have yet to go, if she's willing. "Katniss!" I exclaim. "Well, I can't help it!" she laughs, and it sounds so free and unhindered I think, god, is this what happens afterwards? Is this what I can do? What we can do, together?

"Do you ever think of me…like…like that, when you're alone?" I sound all of thirteen in my immaturity, but I can't bring myself to put too fine a point on it. She knows what I mean, anyways. "Sometimes," she admits, "More lately, now that we have privacy." My hand closes lightly around that hot wetness, my fingers itching to slip under the cotton, find what lies beneath, wrench sounds from her. She makes a soft, satisfied sound at my touch. "Katniss, can I…can I touch you like that?" I ask, sounding so uncertain and young to myself. "Let's rest a little right now, okay?" she replies, but for the first time, she does something new, and sits up, reaches down, gathers the ends of her own tunic, and pulls it over her head. Then there is nothing but her slim, bare body, the rounded breasts and hips that began to fill out again, making her look more like a woman, after the Games. She looks strong, her flat belly leading down to the hem of those sodden underwear. She keeps them on, though, I suspect because she doubts my—or her own—self-control. I respect her boundaries, though I whisper, "Oh, Katniss, you have no idea the effect…" as she lies down, her back against my chest. Already I feel the stirrings of another erection, a hazard of being 18 and lying in a quiet, warm room with a beautiful naked girl, I suppose. It can't be helped. I encircle her with my arms, letting the remnants of my sticky release stay where they fell. Apparently, she doesn't mind, and she presses firmly back into me, her entire body molding to mine. This is the first time we've slept together without clothing between us, and it's the most intimate feeling in the world. I gather the blanket protectively around her, careful where I place my hands. I don't want to offend her, though those small, round breasts with their pink tips entice me, make me feel hot all over.

I feel her going, drifting off to sleep, a sleep that I know from experience will likely be far more restful than her last attempt. Before she goes over the edge into darkness, I can't help myself but whisper, "You love me. Real or not real?" This is only the second time I've ever asked. But I can almost feel her smile in the dark.

She clasps my hand against her breastbone and whispers, "So real, Peeta," before she sleeps. I say a silent prayer of thanks for the luxury, the necessity, and the love, most of all.


	2. Girl on Fire

When I wake up, it's dawn. I can tell without thinking about it that the nightmares have gone. This is the first thing I register, with the sunlight: that I feel rested. The second thing is that I am curled with Peeta on the floor in front of the now-cold fireplace, free of clothes, save my underwear, warm and secure under our thick blanket, and that his big baker's hand gently cups my bare left breast. This is not the state we left off in, but how could he possibly help it? I stare at it for a minute, taking the time to remember the details of last night. How I dreamt again of the fire that consumed my little sister whole, how I woke up screaming, rushed outside into the cold to escape from the fire, feeling like my mind was slowly begin to slide out from beneath me. How Peeta found me there, carried me home, warmed me and soothed me. And how I'd done what I sometimes imagined doing at night, trying to chase away all the bad thoughts with some good ones.

The teasing about the purity was true only in part; no one has immediate access to my thoughts, after all, and I'm still 18. I have no real experience with sex or anything like it, but it would be completely foolish for anyone to assume I don't think about it, when I'm not thinking about things like how to survive the night and not starve to death. I have the luxury of more time, now, which is a curse and a blessing, and these are thoughts that sometimes fill it. I haven't been able to hold Peeta at arm's length, not for lack of trying. Too many times I heard Haymitch's voice in my head, "You could do a lot worse, sweetheart." The courage Peeta has shown in shaking off the hallucinations of me, when he could have abandoned me, let them subsume him and leave me, especially with my own projections of indifference onto his affections…I can't shake it loose. What he calls love, in the end, I can't find another more suitable word for. Peeta's proven his loyalty to me, time and again. Most of all, he's proven that he can be whatever it is I need…if only a friend, so be it. I can feel the self-restraint he projects sometimes at night in his chaste kisses on my hair and cheeks. I catch him looking at me sideways sometimes, open longing in his eyes. What I know most surely is that Peeta would give these desires up, if I could not or would not accept what was offered. That fact alone made me relax, feel safer. He lets me set the pace, if indeed there is a pace, which, after last night, I'm guessing there is. I love selectively, but fiercely. There stopped being a point in denying loving Peeta, in a world that so much wants for love. I have so few left to love, after all. Peeta makes me feel safe, cared for, and he is the only one left, after all this, to understand what I feel without my having to explain it constantly. Unless you count Haymitch, who I can hardly ask to hold me at night. Fighting something so obvious seems stupid, and I'm growing out of that kind of stubbornness for the sake of stubbornness alone. If the past three years taught me anything, it's that life is too short.

I recall the soft sounds and cries that breached his lips last night as I explored his lovely body with my hands and mouth, and I tried to imagine what it would be like, to want someone for as long as he claims to have wanted me, and then…I picture wide blue eyes, looking hungry and terrified all at once, locking onto mine. And then the surrender as he arched his back, moved into my tentative touches. I felt powerful, to be able to give so much pleasure to someone else. I've come to look at Peeta differently, more in the way I used to hear about girls and boys looking at one another. I notice the sunlight glinting in his shaggy hair, his big, rough hands, his hard stomach from two years of combat and training, those gentle blue eyes. I feel a bite of lust thinking about the previous evening's events. Peeta is still asleep, that one hand cupping me. Slowly, so as not to wake him, I reach down and touch myself lightly through the fabric of my underwear. The heat beneath has cooled but, I feel, could easily be rekindled. And I know how to do that. For no reason other than, perhaps, that I discovered that this one thing among many might ease my tension enough to sleep an extra hour or two, I know my body better this year than any year before. How pleased Peeta would be if he knew he played a part in this, inside my head! Sometimes I pretend my own fingers are his, though they feel nothing alike. I think of those stolen moments on the beach and in the cave and replay them, the firm feeling of his shoulders under my hands and his teeth beneath his lips. The way he held me so reverently.

I'm drifting, and my fingers have begun moving of their own accord, seeking out that hidden place I had to search for carefully, for the lightest of touches awakens it and sends me jolting. Through the fabric it's easier to stay quiet and smolder. I'm not trying for an end. I just want to feel the sensations that coursed through me as I drifted off to sleep, after Peeta's release last night. I know he would gladly have returned the favor, or tried, but I was too spent afterwards, trying to gauge the emotional weight of the situation I'd put us in. Now I feel more stable, having rested. My two left fingers work gentle circles. I focus on Peeta's hand. I wish it would move, touch my nipple, growing harder as I play leisurely. The heat is coming back. I slip one finger beneath and under, and I'm surprised. I'm soaked with my own moisture, pouring out unstoppably. I feel a little smug, oh, if he knew what I was up to.

Maybe this thought triggers the universe's silent mockery, because it's then when I feel Peeta awake. He always goes rigid for just a microsecond when he wakes, before he realizes I'm there and settles back in. But this time, I feel his hesitation, disorientation, as he connects the pieces I got a few minutes ago. I turn slowly over to greet him, and he realizes where his hand is. His face reddens and he pulls it back as though it might scald me and begins to stammer apologies. "I didn't mean to…" he says frantically, as though this might convince me that he really is some kind of pervert with no respect for boundaries. I take his hand and promptly place it back in its former position, only I shift it so his thumb grazes that hard little pebble of a nipple. I close my eyes to revel for a minute in the sensation, which sends short little stabs of lightning through my belly and down. He looks stunned when I open them. Maybe he thinks he dreamt it all. This makes me smile.

I lean in, so slowly, for a kiss good morning, and he sighs when his lips touch mine. The spark flickers again. Girl on Fire, will I never escape you, I think. His other hand moves questioningly up to my second breast, sliding up my ribs, and I don't make any effort to resist. He pinches that nipple gently between his fingers and it begins to harden, too, as he rolls it. He cups my small breasts and stares at them, which makes me laugh for some reason. He bites his lip. "About last night, Katniss…" I stop his words with another kiss. "Last night was wonderful," I say firmly. "Thank you for bringing me home, Peeta." The look of gladness that shines on his young-looking face could light up a room. It makes me feel happy, too, but there's still an urgency in me that hasn't been attended to. I know perfectly well that by now, Peeta would be more than willing to go again, himself, but now I'm selfish.

"Peeta, play with me," I whisper in his ear, turning his face gently to the side so that I can reach it. I know what effect this will have and my mischievous side enjoys these deliberations. He groans, managing an "Are you sure?" That's my Peeta, polite to the very end. "Yes," I say. His hand slides down my belly as I lie on my back, and he jumps when it closes over mine, which still rests on myself as I stroke. "Katniss!" he says, and I have a feeling it slipped out before he could choke it back. "I think you thought I was some kind of robot," I say, amused. "I'm 18, Peeta, same as you. I just had other things on my mind before now. Do you have plans today?" "I do now," he murmurs to me, curious fingers running over the landscape beneath the fabric, not daring to slip it off, yet. This landscape, so different from his own. I move my fingers to let him explore. "Mmmm," I sigh, and stretch like a cat. His other hand is still closed over my nipple, pinching harder now. I suspect…though never having enacted my thoughts, I can't be sure…that I like it a little rougher than Peeta, so this turns me on rather than paining me. "What can I do?" he asks, seeming a little lost. It was easier for him when I retained explicit control. Now he must feel even more apprehensive. "What do you want to do?" I ask. "Everything," he whispers, staring into my eyes before lowering his lids, shyly. "Tell me!" I demand, as much for the fun of making him force out his thoughts as for my curiosity. To lighten the demand, I lean in and kiss his neck fervently, giving him little bites as I move down and around to his exposed throat. I'm almost purring from the warmth, the security, and this buzz of awareness beneath my waist that lends me a strange kind of power and security. Guess I'm grown up now all the way around, I think.

"I want…I want…I want to touch you everywhere," he whispers, "I want you to cry out my name. I want to make you come as you hold on to me. I want to…I want to taste you," he almost whimpers. I know there's more, but I let him keep some.

"So, do." I say this simply.

"Can I?" he looks to me for confirmation.

"Play with me," I say with half-closed eyelids. "Love me." It's all he needs. He swings up on both arms and balances himself over me. His eyes search mine, and I suppose they find what they need, because suddenly his lips are crushing mine with a passion that takes me aback. His hand tangles into my hair at the roots and squeezes, tugging it. He hesitates again. "Am I hurting you?" Oh, Peeta. I shake my head firmly. He returns his grasp, and I can't get enough. I whisper something he doesn't hear. He cocks his head. I repeat it, but not before I preface it, since I know he'll protest.

"I'm going to tell you what to do, and you do it, okay?" I say. "Don't worry about it if I ask for it, and I promise I'll tell you to stop if it hurts or if I don't want to. I promise." He must trust me, because he nods his assent. "Harder," I say firmly, tilting my head towards his hand. His eyes are surprised, but he tugs a little harder and I flick my tongue up, trying to reach his mouth again as he pins my head down. This must arouse him, because he catches it with his own and then slips it into my mouth, suppressing more talk as he experimentally pulls hard on my hair. I breathe my assent into his mouth. It feels marvelous. I need something he doesn't, I can feel it. I need a different kind of love, a rough-hewn version of his, a love that bites and soothes all at once. He would never try to hurt me, and this makes me sure. I'm surprised he acquiesces so easily after the incidents with the mutts and his outbursts, but I know how much he wants to please me, and that must override his own fears, as it usually does. He begins to kiss down my neck, caressing my jutting collarbone with his tongue. I'd feel self-conscious about my scar tissue if I could feel anything at all besides him tugging hard on my hair and his mouth on my skin, lapping at the beads of salty sweat that form there. He hesitates over my breasts, but then lowers his mouth to them, and it's when I feel his teeth close around my first nipple that my first real sound slips free, "Ohhhh…." I groan, and arch up to meet him. He must make the connection between his own body's movements in pleasure and my own, because he continues without pausing, suckling at the tender flesh, using his other hand and squeezing my breast gently up into his mouth as he balances on his knees. I can feel his want again, coming forth in waves.

He moves easily to my other breast and strokes the soft undercurve. When his teeth nip at my nipple and catch hold, he stretches it out for just a moment before becoming aware. "I'm sorry," he says quickly, letting go. "Again," I pant, "Harder." He hesitates only a moment then closes his front teeth more firmly around it and bites down just enough to hurt. The mild hurt flushes through me and it seems to redouble my desire for some reason. I wonder if this means there's something abnormal about me…which wouldn't be all that weird, I guess…but then he tugs, stretching me out, and I gasp his name once, "Ohh, **Peeta**." He's leaning so low over me I can feel the hard press of his cock poking at my belly again, but he doesn't seem nearly as shy about it after last night. Boy, was that a surprise. Peeta's not a small man, so maybe it should not have been, but he's not lacking. When I saw the length and heft of his cock last night, I felt a surge of both nerves and longing. I couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like in my mouth, or even…even inside me. This thought recurs and my eyes roll back as I lose myself in the sensations. Peeta's touches, even the rough ones I ask for, are unbearably tender and loving and filled with passion and need.

Peeta's hands reach down, oh so slowly, and I feel his fingertips slide into the elastic at my waist. I close my eyes as he slips off the one shred of clothing I have left, but they fly open when I hear one small, reverent noise come from him. He is staring at me as though I were some creature from another land, beautiful and dangerous. His eyes rove over every inch of me, but not creepily…hungrily, and lovingly. He lingers on the parts he has never seen before, the soft, curly dark down between my thighs. I reach my arms up to him, and his eyes are wide for some reason I don't understand as I do it. He lowers himself into them, hugging me tightly against his own nude body, every inch of us pressed together. His twitching cock settles between my thighs, mere inches from the place where I know it could go, if I only said the word. But I'm not ready for that yet; that kind of closeness still unnerves me a bit. We have time. I don't have any objections, though, when he reaches an easy hand down, stroking along my side, my curves, giving me goosebumps, until it slides over the bone at my hip, hesitates only a second, then plunges, cupping my bush and stroking, exploring the tender folds of pink flesh beneath it. No one's hands, save my own, have been here. I open my legs gradually, allowing him access, as he shifts to kneel over me, just enough of his bad leg left to allow him to do so, so he can view what he's doing. He looks slightly perplexed, but I don't yet guide him. His middle finger slips between my lips, just grazing the swollen, hidden kernel that can give me so much pleasure. The tips of his fingers slide in the warm wetness surging forth, and he shivers. I can tell he knows both why this is and what has brought it…it's a compliment, really, after all. I feel curious. His fingers are still exploring the outside of me, but I've never had anything inside, yet. I never bothered to use my own fingers, since it seemed an awkward angle and I indulged myself so rarely that it seemed most efficient to just target the place that would accomplish my goal, once I'd found it. His hands are hesitant and I feel a little pity…my anatomy seems less easy to interpret than his own, which was shockingly straightforward.

I guide his left hand so the fingers rest where I need them. His breathing is heavy, and my body is rigid with him so close to his goal. He looks up to my eyes and I try to give him a reassuring smile. He begins to stroke, feather-lightly, and I sigh. Oh, yes. This is what I need. My hands clench the blankets into fistfuls at my sides. He strokes more confidently, trying different patterns and angles. When he strikes on one that feels particularly wonderful, my hips arch towards him, swaying up. He's learning to read me, and stays in those patterns if he can. Electric surges run through me. This is Peeta, I keep thinking, Peeta. Peeta's hands. It feels like rebirth and homecoming all at once. I know this is where we're supposed to be, now.

"Peeta," I whisper, my voice catching just for a second, "Put your fingers inside me." He groans and I see his cock jump just at the thought.

"Really?" he queries, though he thinks he must have heard me wrong. I nod. "Go slow, though…keep touching me with the other hand, okay?" He does, but his right hand begins to move through the wetness, turn palm-up, and when his fingertips reach my entrance and press lightly we both cry out in tune. Ever-so-slowly, he pushes two fingers in, joint by joint. I'm shivering with my need, with this vast NEED, like food or water. I'm so aroused, there's very little discomfort as his fingers enter me…they slide easily without help. First one knuckle, then two….I'm panting, trying not to beg…it would be very unlike me. But this situation is very unlike any I've been in, too. As they extend to their full length and he curls them up slightly, into a come-here gesture inside my body, I lose control and beg, keening, "**Peeta, please**!" He gasps at the words, coming from my mouth. I know without asking that they'll be the ones he plays back when he's alone with himself later. I'm writhing in my own sweat. He begins to move them, just an inch or so, pulling and then pushing, watching me closely to see if this is okay. It's far more than okay. The sensation is like nothing else. He's dexterous, because the other hand never stops moving in slow circles even as this one begins to pump me in a slow but regular rhythm.

My nipples are hard as chips of ice. My breathing quickens and I know that it's not going to take much more. "Don't stop," I gasp, "I'm close." He gently uses his elbows to keep my legs firmly spread as I twist helplessly in the waves of pleasure. "God, Katniss, you're so hot inside…" he whimpers. His eyelids flutter for a minute. He'll have to finish himself after this, I'm almost spent. As those circling fingers press down such a tiny bit harder that it's almost imperceptible, I begin to moan as I come. I remember his request and I call his name, "Peeta…Peeta…oh, god…" His fingers slow but they don't fall away. I watch him bite his lip hard as he must feel me spasm around his fingers buried deep inside. I can almost read his thoughts, wondering what that would feel like if it were other parts of him besides his fingers. I almost wish it were, in the moment.

When the waves begin to pass, I feel my face redden. I've made an ass of myself, I think furiously, letting myself go like that. He'll never be able to take me seriously again. Ugh. But then he draws his hands away and raises the tips of the right towards his lips. As I watch, he suckles my own juices from them, closing his eyes as he cleans them off. I whimper. I wouldn't think this would be appealing, but it is. He smiles. Apparently, the taste was satisfying, which relieves me. He immediately comes down, ignoring what must be a deep ache by now in his own nether regions, and wraps his arms protectively around me, drawing me in close.

"Was that good?" he asks self-consciously.

"That wasn't good. It was amazing." I mutter out, just barely. His sweet, bright smile softens the part of me that's annoyed with my own freedom and lack of self-control. I think resignedly, _you're not going to be able to control everything all the time, Katniss._ I let myself melt into his strong arms, still panting. He smoothes my hair back from my forehead. Before I can try to close up again, I whisper, "I've never felt anything like that. Thank you." "Oh, baby, any time," he murmurs into my hair. The use of the endearment is the first time, and the way he reflexively tenses after saying it makes me think it was accidental. I want to hate it, but I can't. I can't bring myself to hate, when he holds me like this. I can't bring myself to fear or even to judge. It's how the necessity came about. Though the sun signals day is definitely here, though I feel a little bad that Peeta's cock still twitches stubbornly beside me, I find myself drifting off into sleep again, spent. Before I go, I think, well, there's nowhere I need to be today, anyways.

We wake up when the bedroom door gives off a series of resounding thuds. Apparently we've missed the knocks on the front door and whoever is trying to get to us has helped themselves to entering. I'm still half-asleep as I hear Haymitch call, "Peeta! Katniss is gone again! What happened last…." "Shit!" Peeta yelps. I almost laugh at the profanity, but then I realize that we're still nude, my breasts pressed into Peeta's chest, the blanket barely covering my ass. This is the only thing that has time to register before the door bursts open. I catch Haymitch's mouth dropping open as Peeta swings a hand up and yanks the blanket almost accusingly over me, covering us. Haymitch begins to laugh, and I'm hard pressed not to join him, honestly.

"Well, well," he says, "I guess I'll…come back." He closes the door again and I can hear him laughing all the way down the stairs. "I guess we're awake now," Peeta sighs, but I look up to see him smiling. Like me, it's hard to be annoyed when you're so relaxed. I sit up. Peeta does too, and wraps his arms around me from behind, kissing my neck. I reach back and put my hand on the back of his neck. "Time to go," I say. "I've gotta hunt." I stand up and realize that I have no actual clothes in this house. Peeta must be one step ahead of me, because he's pulling his prosthetic over and expertly doing the fastening of it back to himself so he can rise. He moves to a chest of drawers and pulls out one of his soft, worn shirts and a pair of pants with a drawstring, which should do long enough for me to get back home into my own clothes, anyways. Haymitch will like that, seeing me do the walk of shame in Peeta's clothes back to my house. He might accost me just to watch me squirm. I gather the shirt to my face and inhale. It smells, of course, like Peeta. For just a second, I remember in flashes: the bloody leg, my frantic screaming as he passed out, the forcefield stopping his heart, the Capitol. I feel the fear rise in my throat, but it's not real. Not real. I'm so glad I have him back, and I never even say it. I turn, wearing only his shirt, and put my hands on his still-bare shoulders. I tilt my face up solemnly to him and say, "I'm really glad you're here with me, Peeta." He smiles. It was worth it, just for the smile.


	3. What Comes After

Katniss heads home to get dressed and head out for the day. She looks good. Happier than I'd expect her to let on. I wouldn't have been at all surprised to wake up to her being surly and cold again; I'd actually braced for it in some ways. I get the distinct impression that she's looking at our situation differently as we gain some distance from it, just in terms of time and moving on. I'd like to know what's going on in her head, but I know better than to pry. She'll tell me when, and if, she decides she wants me to know. I have more than enough to process right now, and my brain feels short-circuited as it is. I notice that when I pull my own clothes on and kiss the top of her head before she leaves, my hands are shaking. It's amazing how pent-up I am considering I just got what I needed less than 24 hours ago. I blush thinking of Haymitch. I'll have to reassure him, at least, about Katniss. Let him know she's doing okay. I'm not really looking forward to doing that, because then comes the part about WHY she's doing okay, and I'm sure his big obnoxious mouth will have something to say about that. Really, I think, is it SUCH a big surprise? It's not like we were going to be chaste forever, even individually. Technically we're both adults now, and we're certainly raising ourselves at this point. There aren't even many alternative options when it comes to romance, since the district got bombed. Not that I'd be looking. I can't look with Katniss around. It's become ingrained after years of single-minded obsession. I wonder how the hell I'm going to get through the day with her voice echoing in my head. I'm thunderstruck that I raised that kind of reaction from her. She's right; I'd come to see her as completely sexually unavailable. This changes everything. _Shit_, I think, _I hope we didn't fuck it up_. I don't want her to move away from me because she bugs out over the intimacy. I mean, it has to be some kind of compliment, someone wanting you so much, right? "You're overthinking this," I say to myself aloud, sitting on the bed. I'm hungry, I realize suddenly. By the time I get downstairs and begin pulling out bread and butter for breakfast, she's gone off to run her errands. I actually find that I need some space to try to sort things out inside my head alone. I'm a little angry with myself that I let it get so far. _You hardly pressed yourself on her_!...my head tells me. That's true. In that way, Katniss turns out to be sexually predictable: she wants to be in charge of things, the same way she takes control of everything else. And her will is enormous, whatever it's pointed at. Coming up against Katniss usually means you'll either get ignored or steamrolled.

I eat slowly. The day is bright and sunny outside, but it'll be cold. I want to go take a walk. I shrug on a warmer coat and head out. I don't lock the door—never do, anymore. No one would come in…there _is_ no one to come in…except the people that already barge in whenever they want. Haymitch. I sigh. I might as well start there, get it over with. I move in that direction and let myself in without knocking, which is disappointing payback since Haymitch is never doing anything besides sleeping off a hangover or trying to give himself one. Now it's the latter. I don't know how he can drink that stuff so early; it can't even be 11 AM. He's supplementing it with an apple he's peeling with his knife at the table, disgusting boots propped up right where he's eating. I don't point this out. Haymitch, like Katniss, does whatever the hell he wants. He looks up and smirks. "Loverboy," he croons. "How's your morning?" "Alright, actually," I answer.

"I bet," he says. "What was that, exactly?" It would be dumb to pretend I don't know what he means, but I stall.

"What was what?" I ask, trying to sound innocent.

"That." He says, pointing at my neck. I start. My neck? I glance into the window, since there's not a mirror. I can just barely make out the round redness of bite marks along the side and down. I turn what must be a truly remarkable shade of puce as all the blood in my body rushes up, instead of down, for a change.

"Katniss." I say, trying to recover some shred of dignity.

He laughs. "She's going to chew you up and spit you out," he snorts. The thought of Haymitch thinking about Katniss' sexual skills makes me feel slightly ill, but I realize he's probably just making a natural cognitive leap from how her personality is in any other situation. "I did okay," I say defensively, still scarlet. I don't really want to have this conversation but I say it reflexively.

"Peeta," he says, his eyes getting serious, "Be careful."

"What do you mean?" I ask, my stomach sinking.

"I mean, be careful," he repeats. "She's a little…unpredictable. I know how much you care about her. I think she returns it, personally. But she's still working a lot of things out. Don't expect too much." This is a hard request now, honestly. Haymitch must remember what it's like to be 18 and in love. I know he has my best interests at heart…both of ours…and this is a lot of words from him.

"It was her idea," I tell him.

"That doesn't surprise me at all."

Before I can stop myself, I ask an embarrassing question. "Do you think she loves me, Haymitch? She said she did." I have no parents anymore, no one that could field questions like this, just Haymitch.

"I do," he says, without hesitation, and this makes me feel better. If anyone would know, he would. He takes another swig from his bottle. Haymitch is happy now that the Hob is up and running again; though it's no longer in the same place, of course, and it's no longer anything but a regular market. The new government doesn't regulate the sale of alcohol to those over legal age, and the new Peacekeepers are happy to ignore him as long as he's not making a disturbance. Ripper made it out and she keeps him in good supply. Haymitch, I know, will never not need his white liquor, even if this makes me feel sad. There's been too much. I understand, even if I don't condone it. We're a fraternity of sorts, in the Victor's Village. A lot of days I find myself missing the presence of the other Victors. Finnick. Johanna, even, who has gone back to her district. Last I heard, she was doing much better. She promised to come visit once she's more settled. She and Katniss actually have a lot in common. They write to each other, I know. Johanna, too, spends a lot of time in the woods. It comforts her, after being away for so long. All the districts are in heavy rebuilding phase, though, since so much has been destroyed from the war. All of us are on pick-up crews a few days a week. I'm glad my shift isn't today; I'd probably drop chunks of concrete on my feet in this state. Mass graves were dug in the Meadow, and most of the worst of the carnage is gone from the houses and streets now. I wish I had somewhere I could sit and actually mourn my family, but many of the bodies were unidentifiable by the time the brave new squad of Peacekeepers—some volunteers from 13 and some from our own district, all voted on upon our return—got around to clearing them out. That was purely on a volunteer basis, since so many of us had lost people we cared about, and they didn't want to cause any more catastrophic mental breakdowns. I respect those volunteers deeply. Katniss, Haymitch, and I bowed out of that one, but no one really expected or wanted us in on it, anyways…we've been party to enough death to last a lifetime.

"What's your plan today?" Haymitch asks, snapping me out of my own thoughts. I've shifted onto my good leg and am probably staring into space. I haven't figured out what I'm doing yet today…it's a very strange feeling, sometimes, since we have neither work nor school anymore to keep us preoccupied. I've been a little at loose ends.

"I'm going to…walk…then bake." I decide this on the spur of the moment. These are things that will help calm me. Maybe I'll paint later. We need more bread, anyways. Katniss will turn up with meat and plants and we can figure out some time to get to town and buy the rest at some point soon. The three of us usually just work groceries out for everyone collectively. He nods. "Where's she?" he asks. "Hunting," I say. He looks approving at this. It's better than the days she stays in bed, and I actually think she will hunt today, not just lie around the woods thinking of our pain all day. She looked sharp. Haymitch echoes this thought.

"She looked good heading out," he says, so I know he saw her go. "Better. Maybe something good will come out of this thing you two have going."

"Thanks for the optimism," I snort. "Just wanted to get the mockery over with. Can I go now?" He smirks again.

As I turn to go, he calls, "Hey, Peeta! One more thing." I turn. "Be careful."

"You already said that," I remind him. He gives me a sort-of-evil eyebrow raise and then he says, "Not like that." It takes me a minute to get the drift, but when I do, I begin to blush again. Jesus. This day is shaping up to be a doozy.

"I know," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. He nods and turns away. I decide to just walk down to town myself and get the shopping over with now, since it's a good distance to walk. I can get some new spices for the bread if they have them. A comparative lot of good food comes through here now, and our options are more and much better. The Capitol is still working on getting it together, of course, and it will undoubtedly take a long time, but one of their main priorities in conjunction with 13 was to make sure the food that got out to us was better. Which is no small feat considering that so many of the resources to grow it and get it out were destroyed. The good news, I guess, if you can see the good news in this, is that there are far less mouths to feed now.

I head down the path towards town. Winter's almost over, I hope. I'm tired of the cold. It makes my bad leg slower and more painful. But today, that's far down my list of thoughts. Out of nowhere, I hear, ringing so clearly in my ears that she could have been standing beside me, "_Peeta, please!" _It takes approximately four nanoseconds for me to get hard. Oh, boy, please don't let this happen all day. I think wryly that I have to find some effective way of blocking this out or risk never leaving the house again.

When I get to town, it's good to talk to the others. We're closer now that the war's over and there are fewer of us. We have a sense of pride, collectively, that I didn't feel before. I think we feel stronger, for still being here, through it all. The merchants whose shops haven't burned down are mostly open for business again. I visit the site of the new Hob, in a barn just outside the town limits. I'm more familiar here now, since I come with Katniss when she trades sometimes. I pay with coin for what I need, lacking her talent with weaponry. I buy us some of the necessities…soap, thread, some new spices, arrange for some more firewood to be dropped off at my house—I cut it myself sometimes, but as sitting by the fire is one of the more calming things I have left, I go through an awful lot of it. At a stall selling various configurations of home remedies and herbs…a job Katniss' mother and sister were responsible for only a few years ago, I think with a pang…my eyes catch on small boxes stacked in the corner, each containing a stack of Haymitch's last warning. I wonder if I'm being premature. I dread making this particular purchase. Word gets around fast in 12 and I'm sure it would get out. Then I see who's minding the stall and I can't tell if it gets better or worse when I do…Delly. I sigh. Maybe she at least can be persuaded to keep her mouth shut out of some kind of misguided loyalty. She's usually prone to talking, but she's moved a little beyond an acquaintance since I returned from the Capitol's torture. She's almost a friend now. Resignedly, I select a box and approach the counter, because Haymitch is right. Katniss and I can't manage a pregnancy and Katniss definitely doesn't want one, maybe ever, from what she says. I carefully keep that knowledge away from my heart. Delly sees me coming and waves, "Peeta, hey! My grandmother is taking a walk and I'm babysitting. What's up?" She's cheery, as usual. She's lost weight after all that's happened; you could almost call her slim now. When she sees what I'm bearing she lifts an eyebrow and it's so funny on her, I laugh despite myself.

"Wow," she remarks. "Either you've been up to a lot since we last talked, or Katniss is coming around, or both."

"Both," I tell her, sparing the details. "Hey, can you not tell people, please? It's difficult enough with Katniss even if I'm the only one involved in the process."

"Sure," she agrees, "I don't really see what purpose that would serve, anyways. Everyone's assumed that you've been way past there already. Remember the baby?" I had forgotten all about this, but it eases my mind. "Oh, yeah," I say, relieved.

"Good on you for being careful, though!" she adds, taking my money and handing me the box back, in a brown paper bag. "Maybe she's healing, Peeta." Delly is insightful, when she's not talking. She keeps her eyes out.

"I hope so, more than anything," I tell her. "Maybe this weekend we can all meet up and do something." This is a rarity, but I like her and appreciate her collusion. I know she'd like that. She smiles. "Ok. Let me know."

I head for the dairy where I pick up milk, eggs, butter, cheese. I buy Katniss the goat cheese she likes. I wish there were fresh fruit and vegetables somewhere around here, but district 11 was one of the places that got the worst of it, and combined with the season, we're out of luck, except for whatever Katniss digs up in the woods, which is more than most people get. With everything wrapped in brown paper, I sling it in a sack over my back and head back home again. The fresh air feels good after all the heat of the previous night, I have to admit. When I let myself in at home, it's very quiet. I wonder if I should get a cat or something. Katniss complains about Buttercup a lot but I know she's grudgingly grateful for even that minor company when she's alone in the house. I flour the table and begin to mindlessly make some bread for the next few days. As I mix ingredients I hardly need to think about it, it comes so naturally after all this time. My hands move of their own accord through each step. I bake a few with garlic and cheese in them for Katniss, and work on some with cinnamon and raisins. I try to keep it interesting. Maybe she'll find salad makings and we can have an actual meal. I get flour all over me and the smell of the bread rising fills the kitchen space. It's comforting, to have just a few little things that are the same as before. This house is set up well for cooking, at least…everything in here is excessive compared to what we were used to before. The kitchen butcher block is huge and it gives me tons of space. When the oven's hot enough, I put the bread in and mark the time on the clock. While it bakes, I think maybe I'll shower, looking down at my flour-covered self. The shower's another thing I'm not complaining about. Luxury, again. I head upstairs. I have no idea if or when Katniss will come by. Maybe she's freaking out over last night and she'll avoid me. I hope not. Not only because my mouth is watering for fresh meat.

When I shed my clothes and step into the waiting heat of the water, it prickles my neck and back and feels heavenly. This is no Capitol shower; it can't do the fancy things the ones in the training center could, but I wouldn't care if it did. As the hot water pours over me and the bathroom fills with steam, I let myself think about Katniss. About her luminous body, naked, lying back and reaching up for me, like I'd imagined so many times. About her mischievous grin as she kissed my neck and worked her tiny, strong hand on my prick. I groan thinking of that orgasm. I tried to keep my eyes open to watch her finish me, but in the end, I couldn't. I think of her waiting heat, the smoldering wetness that wrapped so tightly around my fingers, clenching on. Of course, my hand has moved to stroke my cock by now. Maybe it's better this way. If she so much as kisses me hello I'm going to go off otherwise. I go slowly, savoring the water and the thoughts: Katniss' tongue slipping into my mouth boldly, reaching down to find her already touching herself while I slept, what her mouth would feel like where her hands had been. I play back her sounds in a reel, her smiles as she encouraged me. _"Peeta, please!" _God, she was so hot inside. I bite my lip thinking about it. I wonder if she'll want me again tonight. I wonder what she's thinking about out there in the woods. It doesn't take very long for me to come. "Mmmm," I groan as my cock throbs and sputters out hot fluid into the water again. It's convenient. This way I'm already clean. But I stand in the water for awhile. The bread won't be done yet. When I hear the door open with a _snick_ sound, though, I jump and grab for a towel. Jesus, does no one in this town knock? It occurs to me that I wouldn't have heard it anyways, but when the voice pipes up I realize it doesn't belong to someone who either would knock or would have to. It's Katniss.

"Peeta?" she queries, as though it could be anyone else in my house, in my shower.

I stick my head out. "Katniss," I greet her, and smile, "How's the woods?" She's flushed and has a leaf caught in her hair. For some reason it makes me happy when I notice it's braided again, though the braid is short. It makes her look more like herself. She doesn't look like she's pulling away from me, like she's regretting anything, I think, in a quick scan, though it's hard to tell for sure. I'm glad she didn't catch me in the act of wearing away these tensions.

"I took your bread out on the way up. Looked about done. It smells really good," she tells me. "Oh, thanks," I say, ducking my head back inside, "I'm almost done." She doesn't answer. "Did you get good game today?" I ask her. But then my thoughts about dinner slip from my head because I hear the soft flump of fabric, the clatter of the bow she can bring home now, since everyone in the entire country knows she's been hunting outside the district boundaries for ages and no one is going to tell Katniss Everdeen not to hunt, now. She's protective of her weapons and I know it's very satisfying for her to take them home. I hear silence for a second, and then, Katniss Everdeen's smooth leg moves into view as she steps into the hot water with me.

I blink. I can't manage to find words. She turns around and presses her back to my chest as though it is the most natural thing in the world. I wrap my arms around her and she tilts her head back under the water. She sighs, "That feels good," and I don't know if she means the water or me. Maybe both. I lean in and kiss the soft spot where her neck joins her shoulder. We rock slowly back and forth in the water. I pick the leaf out of her hair and reach for the soap and begin to lather, without her asking. I move slowly, deliberately, and somehow it's even more sensual than what happened last night. She doesn't protest. It occurs to me that maybe Katniss is tired of fighting all the time. Tired of protest and friction. Maybe she's finally figured out that she's not going to get it from my end. I rub her scalp as I wash her, tilt her back gently to rinse the soap out. She stands very still in that hunter way of hers, but her body is relaxed. The grime from the woods washes down the drain. I lather my hands and chastely wash her shoulders, her back. I think for a lightning second and then take my first risk without asking her at least twice beforehand. I brace myself fully to apologize when she pushes me away, and my soapy hands move down to her hips. I cup her ass in my palms, enthralled with every new bit of her I get to admire and touch. She leans her head back against my shoulder and closes her eyes, which I take for acquiescence. I don't linger, though. My point isn't to come on to her. I kiss the top of her head and she shifts so I can kneel. I soap her thighs, her calves, so strong from years of running around in the woods, then running for her life. When I get to her ankles, she turns. I look up and catch her eyes and there's an odd expression in them, something like wonder. Something like how I felt last night when she first kissed back, or pulled her tunic over her head to lay with me. There's surprise in it, too, but not anger. I begin to work my way back up, a little shyly. I move a gentle hand to soap the curly down between her legs, but I linger least of all there. There will be no end to my erections if I begin to concentrate on my other wants. And this is about her, not me. She sighs softly anyways, though, when she feels my light touch. I move up to her belly, her breasts, pausing just long enough to rub my thumbs over the taut nipples that stand at attention in the heat and steam. Then my hands move up and cup her face as I kiss her. She steps forward to let the soap wash off, and then keeps moving. Her hands hold me steady behind my back so I don't lose my balance with my leg, and she backs me up into the wall before moving her hands slowly up into my hair. She winds them in and kisses me, tenderly. It lacks the heat of last night but there's something new there. So many new things coming from Katniss new…new actions, new looks, new emotions. I hold onto her as though we're the only two people in the world.


	4. With Eyes Wide Open

It doesn't happen every night. The reasons for this are manifold. The most salient to me, I guess, is that there's no magic cure after you've lost so much trust in humankind in general. I saw what happened to my mother when my father died, and I'm afraid of getting that attached to another human being. It must have been wonderful while it lasted, but then, just like that, one minute he was there and the next he was gone, blown to bits for no good reason at all. I've already almost lost Peeta many times, and I remember the agony over not knowing, not even _knowing_, but just _fearing_ that I might never see him smile at me again, that he might just be a cold shell now. I can't imagine what it would be like to know. And a almost a year out from the end of the war, I'm more attached than ever. I'm scared. I know that I've always been able to count on exactly one person…myself…and that now, I can't even do that all the time, when I become paralyzed with thoughts of the past.

Peeta is offering to take that burden away from me and shoulder it with his own: offering to be counted upon, to carry me for a little while so I don't have to go it alone. It goes against everything in me to let someone do that, though. I'm so afraid to lose again, I don't know how many more losses I could bear. But even if I stayed away from Peeta, halted this intimacy, pretended to change my mind, I can't stop what I feel. It's easier and safer to be on my own, but now I don't want to be. _You already have decided that before, _I think to myself: wasn't that the very situation during the first Games? I was a sitting duck on the ground, hauling around a boy who had me by 70 pounds or so with an injured leg. The best, safest, easiest plan then would have been to get the hell into a tree and begin to pick off the remainders. But I stayed. Here I stay.

There are other reasons, too. I feel innately that the steps we're taking now are big, not only because they're so foreign but because they're so intimate. I want to actually draw it out, make it last, all this newness. A sweet ache shimmers in me sometimes now, and I like to savor it, make it last. It's almost as good wanting it as it is having it. I'm trying to not expect anything in particular and just to let things unfold naturally over time. Peeta tends to restrain himself out of concern for me, preferring, I think, to let me set the pace. The night after the first time, after the shower—that is something that we do more, now, however—we made a good meal of greens, Peeta's delicious bread, and some fowl I had shot in the woods. Haymitch came over. That night, I noticed, he seemed more sober than usual. He ate. And he watched. I was shocked that the snarky remarks I had invented for him all day in my head didn't make an appearance. Haymitch was disquietingly mute about his eye-opening experience.

When he watched, it was with a look more solemn than his usual customary one. He tracked congenial exchanges between Peeta and I with his eyes as he chewed, and focused on my behavior in particular. It was creepy, honestly. After the meal, when he was heading home, admonishing us, "Now, don't stay up too late, you crazy kids."

As soon as he had gone, I rounded on Peeta.

"What did you say to him?" I barked. I can't stand any suggestion of secret-keeping between any of us after that second go-round in the Games. The mystery spy nonsense ran out pretty quickly after I got to unzip my Mockingjay outfit, hang it in my closet, and close it. It's still closed, like that whole chapter, if I had my way.

"What did I say to him? What makes you think I said anything?" Peeta asks in bewilderment, taking a step back.

"He was acting weird!" I accuse.

"Katniss, he's always acting weird. He's Haymitch," he says, sensibly enough.

"Peeta I swear to god…" I raise my voice and I detect a note of frustration and nerves in it. I knew somewhere this would come out. He recognizes it, too, because when he speaks again, it's in a low, calm tone, like you'd use to calm an agitated animal.

"Katniss, he can use deductive reasoning. I let him figure it out himself. He warned me that you might not be stable enough yet to know what you're looking for. And…and…" Peeta clears his throat uncomfortably, "He told me to be careful about, you know, pregnancy. That's the truth of everything that was said."

My mind skips this last part and settles on the second.  
>"He doesn't get to decide how stable I am or what I should be doing with my time!" I snap. "I can figure out what I want without the help of Haymitch Abernathy!" Peeta is looking patient, still, and my heart reproachfully recognizes that I might not entirely be making sense or being fair. I'm not sure why I'm angry at Peeta. Instinctively I know he's telling the truth; why would he willingly add either of those last details in?<p>

"He's just concerned, Katniss. He cares about us. It was kind of his job for awhile."

"He never did it very well!" My eyes are bright. I feel confused. Does Haymitch see something in me that I don't want to acknowledge? Does he think I'm making a huge mistake, that I don't care whether or not I hurt Peeta? Will Peeta always be the better of the two of us? I stand up and push my chair back. "I need to go home. I have a headache." I pull my jacket on and flee, as Peeta looks on with bewilderment and a little, I think, sadness. I can't focus on it. It stings.

That night in bed I toss and turn. Peeta doesn't come over to get me. He knows that I'm not fond of people infringing on my space. Buttercup hisses at me as I disturb his sleep, tossing and turning. "Oh, shut up!" I snarl. Finally, when the clock reads 2:30 AM, I pull on my clothing and walk across the green to Peeta's. The door isn't locked. I let myself in quietly. If he's sleeping, I'll go, leave him in peace.

He's not. When I peek around the edge of the cracked bedroom door, I see him sitting in the moonlight, painting. He looks tired yet very much awake. I slowly push the door back with my toe. When he sees me, he looks up, but his expression remains tired and a little distant. "Hi," he says. His tone is dull.

I cross to the room and sit on the bed beside him, but not touching him. I glance at his painting. It's me, sitting on what I recognize as my current front steps, bathed in moonlight that bounces off the snow, my face in my hands. _Ah_, I think, _current events. _He doesn't ask what I think about it, or make an attempt to cover it. I look at him and he looks back. And then, I get up. A sound escapes him, and I think he's trying to decide what to do, whether to call me back, but I stand only long enough to turn, and then I carefully perch myself on his lap, placing most of my weight on his good leg. He takes me in his arms and I kiss him, carefully, as though not to break him. I take his face in my hands. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

"I love you," he whispers back.

And that's how it went. After that, we did sleep together every night, and without clothing, ignoring Peeta's common erections. When I expressed some guilt about this one night, Peeta just smiled and said, "I don't have prosthetic hands, Katniss. I can do it myself." Once, he does, and I watch, trying to pick up on what he seems to like for next time. He doesn't touch me, just lets his eyes roam over my body before his orgasm overcomes him and he has to shut his eyes. I love the feeling of our skin on skin. I get turned on, too, especially when his hand shifts in the middle of the night to somewhere sensitive. Sometimes I shift it myself and just leave it there. Usually Peeta will squeeze me gently on my breast or ass or the soft mound between my legs when I do this, but he holds off. He senses that I need to breathe for a little while.

One reason that the trust is winning out, that my fear is being, little by little, eroded, that I'm comfortable lying nude in Peeta's embraces every night, is because I can't deny that I'm getting better. Since that night, I find it easier to wake in the mornings, easier to sleep at night, easier to move around. My funks happen less, although they're unavoidable. I find myself bringing in great loads of game from the woods, so much that I give it out as often as trade it. We don't need that much meat and we're still rolling in coin for life after the first Games. The food that gets out here, though more and better, is still never quite as much as the people would like, and some of it…particularly if you can't afford better…has that gluey Capitol quality to it that isn't very enticing. Johanna writes to me. She's living on her own, in a small apartment that the mayor of her town set up as a part of a complex for those who had lost their families. Johanna likes that she has this is common with the others, however morbid. It means they don't have to pretend to be okay. There are doctors in the complex and Johanna, like me, still has to let them keep track of her, but they let her come and go as she pleases. She even has a dog, a big yellow one that she sends a rare photo of one time. In it, she's laughing. Her hair has grown back all the way, and though short, it's shiny and full. She looks awfully thin…I've had this problem myself…but as close to okay as any of us could be expected to be. Once travel between districts is more reliable, she promises to come see me, and bring the dog. I look forward to it.

Haymitch notices, too.

"Now, Katniss, how's life these days?" he drawls when I stop by to drop off his haul of the groceries and some of Peeta's bread. I drop it on the floor by his feet.

"Fine," I answer guardedly.

"I noticed that you seem to be going about things rather ordinarily these days. For you, anyways." Of course, the snipe at the end.

"Did you expect me to be a zombie forever? Or were you just hoping?" I say coolly. I wouldn't want Haymitch out of my life, but I don't trust him the way I trust Peeta. And I'm suspicious of probing questions coming from his end.

"To what do you attribute this sunny personality?"

I know what he's getting at. I'm not stupid. "It's none of your damn business, Haymitch," I respond testily, "Stay out of it."

He grins. "You see, I could, sweetheart, but we're all one big happy family now. And what kind of a guardian would I be if I didn't place the very core of my happiness in your safety and success?" He says this in a mock-noble voice that incenses me. He still treats me like everyone else knows what's going on, but I'm missing the point.

"Why do you really care, Haymitch? Spit it out."

He sighs. The look of jovial hilarity drops off his face and in the moment, I see how very old he's gotten to look. "Look, Katniss, just be honest with yourself about what you want, alright? That boy's gone through enough already and you know he'd give you the world if he could only lift it."

"Do you think I'm some kind of evil heartless person who's out to get him, Haymitch? Thanks a lot for the faith." I snap. I'm turning to head out.

"Katniss," he calls behind me, sounding tired, "Try to listen to someone besides yourself just once every now and then."

His words have troubled me enough to disrupt my own train of thoughts and plans and I'm more aggravated that I've let him even get to me in the first place. Be honest with myself? About what I want? These questions are troubling because…I'm not sure I know the answers. What do I want? The things I really want, I can't have. I want for this never to have happened. Never to have had to volunteer for the Games. For Peeta never to have been picked. For Rue never to die, for Cinna never to die, for Darius, for Finnick, for Prim. I want Gale to come home, or at least write. Ditto for my mother. I want to not feel so tired, so broken, so lonely. I want to not have to constantly, still, watch my back, paranoid that something terrible will happen. I want to not have to do everything with one eye open. These are not options in the short-term, and some not ever. What do I want right now? Do I want Peeta, or am I just using him?

I need to think. This necessitates a trip to the woods. When I slip under the fence and into the green, and the noise of town fades behind me, I keep walking. I walk and walk, deeper into the glade alone. It's never the same without Gale: the haul never as good, the work never as fast, the process never as fun. It's one of the reasons I cry out here sometimes, curled up in our nook by the rocks, the one we nestled into to eat his bread with my cheese the morning of the 74th Reaping, a lifetime ago. I want Gale back. I want just one more day to hunt, to be us, before all this changed. I don't think about him the way I do Peeta; mostly, I just ache for the simplicity of what I thought all along was a really good friendship, a brotherhood of sorts, before the Games and the war changed everything, before we moved irrevocably beyond that. Gale, in whatever form, is one more thing I hold against the Capitol for taking away from me.

I reach the lake and wish I could strip down, but it's only just the remainder of winter and the air alone is cold. The water will be freezing. I sit on the step to the house where I met Twill and Bonnie, an unlikely pair of refugees who, despite my help, vanished into the chaos like so many others. I light a fire, and sit in front of it, staring into the flames. Slowly, I eat a handful of nuts I picked on the way out. What do I want? It's a completely fair question. I'm afraid that if I answer, "Peeta," I'll be locking myself into a commitment that I'm not ready for, that I'm making with no awareness. I still don't entirely believe we have a future as a race, some mornings. The cynicism is overwhelming. Still, he can't expect me to promise what I'll _always _want. He's asking about now. Do I just want to feel better? I have pills I don't take for that. I've gotten accustomed to feeling bad. At a certain point, once I decided I wasn't going to kill myself, it even leveled out. I've felt utterly empty, utterly eviscerated, every day, for most of the day—no appetite, waking screaming from nightmares two and three times a night, crying at odd times and avoiding most everyone like the plague.

_Except Peeta_.

Yes, except Peeta. Even before I was sleeping over with him every night, there were a fair number of nights I did find myself in his bed, find him in mine—clothed, but pressed tightly into each other. No words. Just us. When I wanted no food, no water, no company, nothing at all discernible except to have back things that were gone forever, _I still wanted Peeta_, still sought him out or at least did not refuse his company. Surely I am not the only one to have noticed this. I realize Haymitch might be playing me. Does he already know what I want, and is just tired of my not coming to an obvious conclusion? Is that part of this? Does he think I've just gotten good at lying to myself? Have I?

If that's the truth, it has to stop. If I've lost all ability to access my true emotions, if the Capitol has taken that away and replaced it with only fear and loss and regret, I may as well be dead. There are no cameras, no spectators, no baby. This is scary, I realize, because now it's just he and I…not even really Haymitch, who, as he acknowledged, realizes that I'm headstrong to the point of thickness. Peeta…who is Peeta? Peeta is the boy with the bread. The boy who would have given me his life, to save mine. Peeta is the boy who remembers the song I volunteered to sing when I was only a child in class. Peeta is the one who waits patiently for me to catch up, hoping that someday, I will. Peeta is the boy who holds me at night and comforts me back to sleep as many times as I need. He is strong, he is a fighter and a baker's son, he is as gentle as my tiny, fragile sister once was. Peeta is the boy who planted her primroses. He is the boy who sits with me to help recreate the faces I don't want to lose forever. Peeta is the boy who loves me despite all my stubbornness, my resistance, my sarcasm, my temper. Do I have any reason to believe any of this is a front, or a lie? I reason. No, I do not. Has Peeta been inconsistent with these actions, excepting the time the Capitol hijacked his mind? Never. I stand up. _Okay, Haymitch_, I think. _You:1, Me:0. I have been a coward. _

I shoot some game on the way back, so as not to return with nothing—a couple of squirrels I can trade, a fat woodchuck. I do grab the herbs I spy that are within arm's reach of my path, but I don't go out of my way. Peeta gets nervous when I'm out here for awhile and return with nothing to show for it, plus it seems a little like a waste of an opportunity which, I think wryly, has become a luxury for me. Once it would have seemed unimaginable to risk going into the woods each day just to loiter. My mind feels clearer as I sling my game bag and myself under the opening in the fence. I bring this meat home. There's not enough of it to be worth trading, plus, I want to go see him. I want to put his face again to all these thoughts I'm having regarding it. On the way past Haymitch's, I use an arrow to skewer a squirrel and pin it to his door. It's the closest I come to peace offerings. Haymitch, as obnoxious as he is, doesn't have judgment nearly as poor as I like to think he does.

I leave the game bag on the stoop as I enter Peeta's, so it will stay cool in the snow. I always do this without knocking, both because he doesn't expect me to and because, if he's sitting just off the hall in the dining room, which has the best sunlight, I don't want to startle him into making an error in his painting. He's sitting in there now, but not painting. His eyes are roving over the thick shafts of afternoon sunlight bouncing in and making patterns on the floor. He told me once that sometimes he just needs to watch things and think about them, before he begins. His eyes have a faraway look that dissipates when he sees me. He smiles.

"Figured I'd lost you for the day. Haymitch looked aggravated when I dropped by. Did you do that?" he teases.

"You know me, always the expert in aggravation," I say dryly.

"Why are you in so early? I thought you'd be tromping around out there until dinner. There's a lot of good light left."

Why _am_ I here? "I wanted to ask if you'd take a nap with me," I say firmly.

He looks briefly puzzled, as though I'd asked if he'd like to take a vacation to district 1 with me on holiday. "A nap?" Then he smiles. Peeta is free with his smiles, when I'm around. I cross to him and put both hands on my shoulders, leaning down to kiss him. "Mmmm," he murmurs into it, "Hey, there."

I take his hand and slip it under my shirt, and move it up to cup my breast. He squeezes gently. "You're cold," he whispers.

"Warm me up," I whisper back, teasingly.

He takes my hand and we go upstairs. Peeta's bed, huge, warm and inviting, beckons us. As beautiful as the sunlight is, we close the curtains on our way. The room dims, and it's so breathlessly quiet. Everything around me was loud and chaotic for so long…screaming and crying and things exploding and running and hiding. I seek out the quiet places. When I turn from closing the curtains, Peeta's there. Instead of letting me do it myself, he begins undressing me, gently tugging off my coat and sweater and undershirt, unhooking my bra. He lifts me as though I weigh nothing at all and sets me on the edge of the bed, and then his nimble fingers undo my boots and place them aside, extricate my legs from my pants and finally, as I lie back, sliding off my underwear until there's nothing left but me and my braid, on my back, looking up to him. Like I did that first night, I reach up for him, almost imploringly. This time he teases me.

"What if I just decided to let _you_ nap, while I keep you company?" he asks, perching next to me with all his clothes on. I sit up and wrap my naked arms around him from behind, and lean in to nibble his ear. "I'd be very sad," I whisper.

He closes his eyes and shivers but isn't ready to give in, yet. "Say pretty please."

"Pretty please," I say, obediently.

"I could just paint up here, I guess."

I nuzzle my face into his neck and breathe in. Oregano. Flour. Cloves. Oranges. "Come lie down with me before dinner," I beseech him.

"Why should I?" he's still playing, but suddenly, I'm not, as my hand moves up and finds those silky waves of blond hair that brush my cheek. I lean in closer. "I want you," I whisper in his ear, "I need you. Come soothe it. Please, Peeta."

He turns swiftly to regard me. The words have had the desired effect. He slips his clothes off at the look in my eyes without teasing me anymore, and slides under the covers next to me. I'm already leaning in for the kisses I want. I wrap one leg up over his hip as I pull myself up close to him, and his hands find the end of my braid and unravel it so that my hair falls loose and inky across his white sheets and pillows. After thinking things over today, I feel much more secure overall with myself, and the place between my legs that adores him so is throbbing now. I'm impatient for his love, suddenly. I brush the tip of my nose against his and tell him so.

"So, should I give you some, then?" he asks, stroking my face with the backs of two fingers, tracing them over my eyelids when I blink. I nod. He rolls me carefully onto my back, and then those big, chapped hands are stroking me again, my hair, my cheeks, cradling my face as he hovers over me. His lips are soft and parted as a flurry of hot, openmouthed kisses drops onto my cheeks, my jawline, my throat. I can feel the gentle scrape of his teeth and the flickering laps of his tongue. One of my hands reaches down automatically and finds his cock, hard as stone, twitching just inches above my prone body. I wrap a hand around it and inhale, turned on by the fullness of it, by this evidence of his mutual desire. But Peeta, though he moans softly at the touch, takes both my hands and wraps them up around his shoulders. Whispering into my mouth, which strains upwards for him, he murmurs, "You just hold on to me, Katniss, okay? Hold on. I'll love you all you need." I nod. My eyes are still open, locking on to the brilliant blue they find in his. His openmouthed kisses drop to my breasts, though, and then mine close and see no more, except for the pinwheels of color that blossom behind them as I lose myself in the sensations. His fingers find the curves that lead down between my breasts and my underarms, those sensitive trails, and he maps them lightly. His mouth moves to the flushed tips of my nipples, and he suckles at them greedily. He hasn't had this…we haven't had this…in at least a couple of weeks. It's been too long, I think, fervently.

I wish I could move my hands, touch him while he touches me, but I know he wants to keep his concentration. So I let myself lie back, and merely twist my hands deeper into his curls, not pulling, just holding on as he suckles hard at me, perhaps remembering the last time. His teeth nip and the tip of his tongue probes. He doesn't move away as quickly this time to go on to other places, but showers my breasts with attention, hands petting and lifting and kneading, purring his satisfaction as I begin to find my fingers tightening inexplicably in his hair, as my breathing quickens. I whimper as his teeth find my left nipple again and bite down, firmly. He sits back and slaps one, the lightest he could possibly muster, and watches it swing. He shivers again and cups them both in his palms, flicking his thumbnails over my nipples, which are getting deliciously sore. He's concentrating, but he's also looking self-satisfied.

"You're teasing," I reprimand him.

He covers my breasts in their entirety with big, warm hands and leans in, kisses me, openmouthed. "You said to warm you up. Should I stop?"

I shake my head vigourously. Peeta's eyes twinkle. He resumes his former position, only now those lips are finding their way to the sensitive curves under my ribs, lapping quizzically at my bellybutton and the hollows at my jutting hips. My hand strokes the nape of his neck, the softness of tiny, downy hairs. I feel uneasy, helpless, slightly vulnerable, with Peeta's instructions to lie back and keep my hands to myself, but the sensation somehow makes me more aware, more awake. He's confident, I notice. He doesn't have that old self-restraint; he's not hanging back, double-checking with me. I don't know what to attribute this to: has only one time made him feel more skilled? Is he more convinced that I really do want him now? It he just following his shared blazing hormones? Most likely it's a combination. There's something almost dreamy about it, though, lying back and letting him act upon me. I'm curious as to what will happen next, too. Suddenly, I feel his hands sliding between my legs, driving them apart. I almost sit up, but he's watching my eyes as he does it, staring into them. I see my want reflected in his. His eyes tell me he'd never, ever hurt me. They invite me in. I wait out my apprehension by fixing mine on his.

"Hold them there," he says, suddenly, and reaches up, taking my wrists gently and untangling my fingers from his curls. He moves them slowly to my own thighs and places them just below each of my own knees. It's exposing, this position, and he's asking me to keep myself there, rather than doing it himself. If there's a metaphor in this, it's not too hard to find.

"Peeta?" There's a question in my voice. He eases up to my side and tilts my check adoringly, starting with the easiest of kisses, slow, as light as the brush of butterfly wings. He kisses the corner of my mouth. I lean in for more. He deepens them gradually, moving my lips apart with his own. I'm relaxing, and I'm also craving to see what Peeta can do to me, what he's scheming about. "Okay," I whisper into his mouth.

He returns to me, and like I did to him that first day, he tucks the covers around me, though he's careful not to cover my view of him. As he kneels to me, he leans in, rests his face just against my pubic bone, and inhales. I don't understand this, but I can almost see the quiver that runs from his scalp to his toes. Two fingers stroke my slippery entrance. But he doesn't touch the hard little nub that peeks out for him, urging him on. He just strokes me below, probing, exploring. My fingernails dig into my own thighs in anticipation. I'm drifting in a sea of pleasure behind my eyes. Then, he does something I'm unprepared for, and they fly open. Peeta lows that hot, hungry mouth to that swollen pink kernel, kisses it, begins to lap at the folds surrounding. At the same time he pushes both fingers inside me, groaning softly as he does. I don't know what to feel. I'm shocked, disoriented, and simultaneously paralyzed with arousal.

"Peeta," I get out, "I've been outside all day. I need to shower." I feel weird. Should his mouth be there? He slips out both fingers, hovering just at the tips, then pushes them into me again, more firmly, faster. I cry out, despite myself. He licks up one side of me and down the other. "You taste _wonderful_," he whispers to me, as I feel the tip of his tongue probe the hot, slick slit, lap at it, the tips of his fingers spreading me. He must have a full view of me, with me humiliatingly having to give it to him. Except it no longer feels humiliating. It feels erotic, handing myself over. He pushes the tip of his tongue inside, and then, I can think no more. My ability to think is taken away. I'm aware of letting go of my own thighs at some point to grip the rails at the head of the bed, my chest heaving. Peeta's tongue works me, moving slick and hot over my most sensitive spot, which has missed out until now, only having had hands to attend to it. Now I'll really need him, ha. I can't possibly last. I whimper his name, quietly, then again and again, and one hand finds its way back into that hair, holding him when he finds the right place, the right movement. His other hand works me, sliding his slick fingers in and out, moving slow and then faster as he works me to my climax. By the end, his fingers are almost pounding, and my hips buck so that I hardly know how he stays on. I call his name, over and over, when a flood of semi-consciousness hits me. I arch up, gripping his shoulder as he begins to move slowly again, lightly kissing above the nub that has now become almost painfully sensitive. He smiles, licks his lips. I'm panting, covered in sweat, my nipples at attention, eyes closed, mouth open, when I feel his weight drop beside me.

"Holy fuck," I say, when my mouth begins to function.

"Technically not," he says.

"You….where did you get that idea?" I'm thunderstruck. Innocent Peeta? Maybe his brothers?

He makes a noise like, 'heh.'

"Katniss, I've been dreaming of doing that with you for almost four years," he says, straightforwardly.

The face I'm making must be both comical and skeptical. "What…else…have you been dreaming about…?" I ask, the words coming out one at a time. I have a sudden craving to know the answer to this question. But he doesn't give.

"Ah, guess you'll have to keep hanging around me to find out," he jokes. "Now, if you don't mind, I have serious issues right now." One hand closes around his prick, the other reaches down, and I let him press it against the slippery flood that is me, even though it initially makes me jump. I lean in and kiss his ear, suckle it gently, whisper, "Thank you, Peeta. That was…unbelievable," and he moans as he comes. We're both a mess now, but I need that nap more than ever. My mind is blown. I feel as though the entire world is content with me, and I with it. I'm sleepy. Plus, I kind of like the idea of sleeping with Peeta in the evidence of our own lovemaking. He kisses me before we sleep, and I taste something new, which is, of course, myself. I examine it, probing his lips gently, lapping them. It's not bad, like I was afraid. It's just very new. Strange. He seems to enjoy the testing. He tugs at my hair, ever-so-slightly. Then he curls around me and I begin to drowse_. There is,_ I think finally, before I go, _no evil without good to balance it out._ I've had my evil. I'm ready to welcome in the good.


	5. The Promise

She seeks me out more now, for everything. For help doing things that she struggles with herself, but never used to admit to…like carrying her haul back from the woods on a particularly good day…for comfort in times of pain, for sex, for love. Sometimes I still see the frustration and nerves in her eyes. Katniss has become accustomed to knowing how to do things—how to shoot, how to skin, how to find water and herbs, how to survive against the odds. She's trying to learn, or relearn, a new skill now; the skill of how to trust. I'm not going to set myself up by pretending that she had an overnight epiphany and that that's what led to all this. If she thinks I'm telling others, particularly Haymitch, things I'm keeping from her, she turns on me. If she thinks either one of us are trying to give her advice, which I mostly don't even attempt, she turns on us. And then some days she turns for no reason at all. But usually, now, she apologizes when she thinks she's in the wrong. She's more self-aware. I don't see that bratty, petulant side that came out so often before, though she's still moody and bossy. Sometimes, I wonder what it would've shaped up to be if it had been she and Gale instead of me. I wonder if they would have clashed more; him being so strong-willed. My natural inclinations are less demanding and pronounced and there's very little I need to be truly happy, I think. Every time I'm able to put my arms around her and pull her into me, the other things, the hard ones and the painful ones and the scary ones, don't seem real anymore, seem as insubstantial as the wind.

One day she's out, and I'm idling. The bread for the week is baked and I've painted more canvasses than I know what to do with…the whole downstairs bedroom is stacked with them. My shift with the debris was today, but they were working around the bakery and I was told I'm exempt. I'm grateful for that; I don't want to have to wonder where the ashes I'm touching came from and remember my family that was lost. I miss my father the most; because he was the kindest, the most untouched from the daily trudge of living in the conditions we all did, even the townspeople. I need advice, and not that kind of cynical, off-the-cuff advice Haymitch gives me. I also don't want to talk too much about Katniss to him, since he's so far into our circle, and risk it getting back to her. I wish there were more options, but the truth is that even in school I didn't have the kind of close friends that I'd be comfortable sharing this information with. Often, I heard my friends boast about girls they had conquered, tell stories about their romantic exploits. I think they just assumed I was doing the same, but I never talked about Katniss, afraid they would have found it strange, this ongoing obsession with a strange girl from the Seam who seemed to go out of her way to ignore people.

I settle on Delly. She's been true to her word about not speaking about my purchase in the Hob, and she's known Katniss for at least as long as I have. She's a girl, too, and maybe can help me understand the deep recesses of their minds. I never even had a sister who could help me understand girls better; they're an enigma. I catch up to her one day in the Hob and we set up a lunch. I haul a basket filled with bread and cheese up to a higher part of the Meadow…really, the distance you can go from the district now is only limited by how far you feel comfortable straying, since the fence is a nonentity. I don't want to get caught by Katniss, even though I'm not doing anything wrong. The view from the hills is spectacular, too. We spread out an old horse blanket and sit.

"What's up?" Delly asks me, with a slight note in her voice that indicates she might already know where this is going. I mean, how many other deep conversations would I have to expound upon. I had already told her I needed advice about something. "Or, should I ask, how's your love life?"

"It's actually better than it's ever been," I admit.

"Well, what's the problem then?"

"That's the problem," I say. She laughs.

"Okay…I need more information," she says. I begin to explain about Katniss, how I'm terrified that she's only in this for the comfort, that she could turn around any second and decide she's not ready after all, how every moment I spend loving her makes me want to love her more and makes me more afraid to lose her, how I want to help her heal but I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I don't realize how much I've been keeping inside until it all pours out. Delly, to her credit, listens without interrupting. Finally, I talk myself out and blow out a big breath. "Now what?" I ask.

"Okay," she says, "So what's the worst case scenario?"

"She turns on a dime, I guess, and decides that she wants nothing to do with me."

"Peeta, she hasn't done that since the day you walked onto that stage at the Reaping. The farthest out she's gone has been…" Here she begins to tick things off on her fingers. "…she was aggravated you didn't tell her until it was in front of the whole world…which I can understand, even though you had good reason…she was pissed off when she thought you were working with the Careers…which was a bad judgment call in terms of your personality but not at all unexpected…she was frustrated and nasty when you were insisting she was an evil mutt…which is Katniss being Katniss, since her patience threshold is somewhere around nonexistent…and that she's been vacillating between being totally into you and totally distant for the better part of three years. Fair summary?" I nod.

"Yeah, except that last one is pretty much all that matters right now, and in case you haven't noticed, that's the only one you didn't summarily dismiss."

"Because you can't do anything about it," she says.

"Delly…that really doesn't help."

"Okay. So. Katniss isn't really inclined to be close to people, for a bunch of reasons we won't go into, but which make sense. Especially now, unfortunately. If I had to guess, that's probably because she's petrified to lose someone again and give up on life entirely." Delly's face softens. "I'm amazed she came out of it after Prim, as strong as she is." I kind of am too, now she mentions it. "She also has no romantic or sexual experience at all, as far as you know, which is pretty far."

I open my mouth to protest that until now, neither did I.

"Shut up, Peeta," she says, kindly. I close my mouth again. "Let me finish."

"So she's probably scared just of the physical intimacy alone. Even under normal circumstances, there's a lot of trust involved in going where you've been going. She probably feels unsure of herself, which she's not used to, and that'll make her feel powerless instead of confident."

"She's also trying to work through all her own hurt from the loss of a lot of people she loves, which will probably take years to come to terms with. She's pretending she doesn't need support doing that, but she does, whether she admits it or not. She might admit these things to herself even if not to anyone else." I hadn't thought of that. "Also, she's probably totally disoriented with the rest of us over the fact that our day-to-day lives have drastically changed over the course of the past year."

"A person can't feel all that at once, they'd explode,"* I mutter.

"Well, those are educated guesses and intuitive leaps. But I'd bet you a free box of condoms," she teases, "That most of them are at least close to the truth. You've probably deduced some of it yourself."

"So what do I do?"

"What _can_ you do?" she responds. "She's another person, Peeta. She's going to make her own decisions about her life and who she wants in it. Do you want her in yours?"

"Yes," I answer without hesitation.

"Even if she's difficult, uncertain, and still healing?"

"Yes," I say, "Even if anything. Until she tells me point-blank that she doesn't want me in her life anymore."

"She's not going to say that," Delly says confidently, which makes me feel a bit better. "Not after everything you've been through together. She wouldn't have been pounding on that door screaming her head off after the first Games. She wouldn't have freaked out and had such a breakdown when she thought you were going to die from that forcefield. She wouldn't have had a worse one after the Capitol got you, bad enough that she basically forced them into getting you out. And _she wouldn't be seeking you out now_. She wants you in her life, definitely. My thought is that she's just trying to figure out how to trust someone again."

I think about this.

"How do I help her?"

"You already are," Delly says simply. "Let her come to you, Peeta, as she's ready. If she does come, go slow and let her take over if she wants to. Trust her words. I don't think she'll lie to you; at most, she'll say what _she believes to be true at that time_. Katniss is a rotten liar anyways," she adds. "If she seeks you out, love her. Whatever happens, you can never go wrong if you love her and tell the truth. Just be prepared that it might not go as smoothly as you'd hope. But then, what relationship does?" she asks rhetorically.

This all sounds too simplistic and straightforward, but I can't find a rebuttal for it, or any loopholes. This is, indeed, the reality: I'm only responsible for myself, not for Katniss. I can't force her to make a definitive decision, nor can I demand that she not. It's a waiting game, I think, frustrated. I'm tearing handfuls of grass out and shredding them as I think. Delly puts a hand on my arm. "Penny for your thoughts."

"Why can't it all be easier?" I burst out. "I love the girl! Since when did girls reject guys that love them for ten years? Haven't I done everything I could? Haven't I been there all along? Why is she still holding back?"

Delly does something unexpectedly at this outburst, and smiles. She leans in and hugs me, pulling me towards her. I haven't been hugged by a girl besides Katniss in a long time, and I'm hyperaware of the differences, but it's clear this hug is platonic, though it's fierce.

"You're a good man, Peeta," she whispers in my ear. "It's just who you are."

I wonder how she can possibly tell this.

"She's the one who saved _me_," I whisper.

"You saved her, too, she just doesn't know it yet. But she will. I think."

It's late afternoon by the time we pack up. In the dwindling light, we hike down the hill. Delly hugs me again before we go into town, but then I remember. "Hey Delly!" I call down the hill before I veer off. "Johanna's coming in two weeks!"

Delly looks pleased. "Oh, great! Let me know, I'd like to see her!"

When I let myself in, dark is falling and the house is dim, except for a single candle that burns in the dining room, in an armchair that sits across the way from where I paint during the day. I glance over to see Katniss, curled up, with a big book spread across her lap. The chair almost swallows her up, she's so little. I know the book by sight: this is the volume we've been working on adding pictures to together, of the ones we've lost. Just yesterday I was quietly filling in the colors in my sketches of Thresh and Lavinia. I don't tell Katniss when I work on it alone; I wait until she's ready to contribute, since bringing it up sometimes bothers her, triggers her isolating behavior. I learned this the hard way. But she's gazing steadily at someone. I walk over. I had a guess as to who it would be, but it was wrong. Rue stares up at me, her gentle smile beckoning, pigtailed hair sticking out in bunches. She's sitting in the fork of a tree. Katniss looks up. "Where have you been?" she asks.

"Lunch with Delly," I tell her.

"Should I be jealous?" She isn't the jealous type, I know.

I lean in and bury my nose in her hair. It smells beautiful. I kiss the top of her head, "Never before and never after," I say.

She looks back down at the page and I see her deflate. "I miss her," she whispers.

"Me too," I say, "Did you love her?" I ask cautiously. This is not even the type of question that would have been allowed a few months ago.

"I did, very much," she says simply, and closes the book. She leaves it on the chair cushion as she stands, stretching her arms so that her back crackles.

"Can I have a welcome-home hug?" She smirks. "I'm not your wife," she says, but steps willingly into my embrace anyways. She tilts her head up and I kiss her nose. "Dinner?" I ask her.

"Sandwiches," she says, "I got distracted in the woods today. The Mockingjays were singing…" I know now why she came home to gaze at Rue. I feel a stab of sadness for her. "Okay," I tell her, "It's okay. How are you feeling?"

"Just tired. I feel like I shouldn't be tired when I do so much nothing, though."

"Your mind is doing gymnastics," I tell her. "That's tiring."

"I had my call with the doctor today," she wrinkles her nose, "He says I sound a little better but he's still pushing those damn pills."

"What'd you tell him?" I query as I move towards the kitchen to slap together some food.

She follows me. "I told him I had you, actually." When Katniss says things like this, they never come out sounding romantic, just matter-of-fact. When I say them, they make me sound like a lovestruck choir boy. "Oh, there's a having of the me, now?" I ask her. She nods, but leaves it at that. This is Katniss-ese for "I refuse to sound like one of _those_ girls." But there's a lot in what she doesn't say, too.

We sit with the food. Katniss has finally given in and brought the cat over, since she spends her nights here anyways, and he wails for her. It was begrudging, but I know the thought of him alone in that house was bothering her. She keeps most of the doors in it closed. Katniss does not like the Victor's Village. He rubs our feet now, looking for cheese scraps, which I throw him. She doesn't. "Go hunt," she tells him. We drink cold mint tea. Then I surprise her, extracting a bar of chocolate from my back pocket. This was a gift from Delly, and I have no clue where she found it, since sweets of any kind are rare unless you know how to make them, but I'm re-gifting. I hand it over.

"Is this chocolate?" she inhales it. "Wow. That smells amazing. Where on Earth did you get it?"

"Ah, I have my ways," I tell her, as she snaps pieces off and hands them to me. She herself takes a bite of the bar and closes her eyes. "Mmm," she says, "Thanks." She's finished half of it before she wraps it and hands it back, "Save the rest for later on." She sucks the chocolate remnants off her fingers and watching this completely nonsexual act, I get turned on. Of course. Those perfect pink lips…her tongue curls out and swipes the bottom corners clean as I watch. When she rises, I begin to wipe down the table. It's amazing how domestic all this has come to feel. I am decidedly NOT going to point this out, I think, amused. The mere suggestion would guarantee that Katniss would resort to living in the woods, with the wolves, before I even finished the thought.

"I'm going up," she says, "I want to rest." I make a quick decision to let her have some space. It seems like it's one of those days, with the Mockingjays and Rue. "Okay, I'll paint for a little while," I say. "And there's some clothes I have to mend."

She shakes her head in a negation. "No, I don't want to be alone."

"You have the cat," I remind her.

"I don't want to be alone with the cat," she amends, and I laugh. "Are you asking me to come with you?"

She nods and holds out a hand to me. This strategy Delly has about getting her to move closer by letting her move away seems on target at the moment. My own strong fingers close around it, and she leads me…and the cat…up the stairs. She climbs into bed with all her clothes on, and when I follow her lead, I can feel her shaking as we lie together. It was imperceptible until I was this close. My heart goes out to her, all of a sudden. I lost my family, but Katniss lost hers, too. And Rue. Darius. Finnick. Gale has moved away. All these are people Katniss was closer to than I was. I push her hair behind her temple and kiss her forehead. I wish I could say something, do something, to make her forget. It's just us, in this quiet room, with the past so big it crams itself into every space. I trail my thumbs down to her neck and begin to rub her lightly. The muscles at the crease between her neck and shoulders are so tense, they're like stone. I pinch gently, rolling them around, trying to help her relax. She closes her eyes and sighs. "That feels good, Peeta." Every time she says my name, a little shiver runs through me.

"Want me to do your back?" I ask willingly. She thinks for a second then sits up and lifts her shirt over her head. She turns so I can reach her back, and I trace my fingertips over the soft white cotton of her bra straps in the back. Gently, I unhook it, even though she didn't, and slip it off her slight frame. She doesn't resist. I want to be able to see that luminous, silky skin as I touch it. I kiss the back of her neck, where the nerves cluster. She makes a soft sound. I wrap my hands over her shoulders, as fragile as bird bones, and begin to work the tension out. I can feel actual knots.

"When was the last time someone gave you a backrub?" I ask.

She laughs, shortly, but doesn't say anything. I have a feeling this is not a question that's open for discussion, but I think of her father. Surely not her mother. Prim? Cinna? Someone gone. I'm the bearer of back rubs, too, now.

"Okay," I whisper, and I'm quiet as I move further down her back. She's breathing quietly, evenly, and I'm glad. She jumped once or twice when I hit a spot that must be particularly sore, but now she's calming. I work on her for maybe forty minutes, finishing up around her lower back. I ache to toss aside the rest of the fabric that protects her body from my eyes, want so badly just to gaze at her body next to me, but I don't push. When I finish, I pull my own shirt off and then I lie with her. I lie on my back, and she moves automatically to lie her head on my chest and whispers, so lowly I almost miss it, "Thank you." I hug her tighter in response and rest my cheek against her hair. I'm not tired yet, but I know she is, so I lie still. The cat creeps onto the bed near our feet, which twine together under the blankets. Before too long, I feel her drift off, and then it's just her tiny form, curled against my big one. "I love you," I whisper to her hair, and I hope that some day, she believes it with all her heart.

She beats me awake. She moves so silently when she wants to, that I never even feel her slip out of bed in the mornings. I was awake late, replaying my conversation with Delly in my head and listening to Katniss breathe, guarding her from the nightmares. It must be early morning before I drop off. When I wake and reach for her, the bed is cold next to me. I sit up quickly and I'm reaching for my shirt when she pushes the door open with her back, because her hands are occupied. I relax.

"Where'd you go?" She knows that we both get startled when either one of us wakes up alone unexpectedly.

"Hey," she says, a little awkwardly. "I thought that I should thank you for last night. I was about five minutes from freaking out by the time you found me. I kept replaying…you know…over in my head and it wouldn't stop." It's then that I notice she's carrying a tray. She sets it on the bed over my lap. She must have showered, because she's still damp and wearing an old robe of mine I usually throw over the shower rod. I always enjoy watching Katniss in my clothes; that possessive impulse comes over me again. The tray bears what looks like a goat-cheese omelette and some freshly sliced cinnamon-raisin bread from yesterday. She's even brought up tea.

"Katniss Everdeen, you cooked."

She wrinkles her nose at me. "I can do it, Peeta, I just don't like it."

"Aww, that makes me special," I tease. She smiles, though.

"Damn right! I almost burnt the damn thing to a crisp, you're lucky I smelled it…"

She curls up beside me in the robe as I take an experimental bite. It's quite good, actually. I tell her so. She looks self-satisfied. I offer her some but she claims to have already eaten. I doubt she went through this much trouble making herself something, though.

"I'm not there for you enough," she says suddenly and unexpectedly. I blink, trying to keep pace and change topics with her. "What?"

She repeats it. "You're always there for me, and I hardly ever even ask how you're getting through. How are you?"

I think about this question for a minute before answering, "I'm not myself entirely, and I don't know if I ever will be, but it's so much better with you here. I'd go crazy if I had to get through this on my own. I knew we had to come out of this whole thing together." This is not romantic hyperbole. I literally can't fathom how the solo Victors managed alone, after suffering so much and seeing so much horror. Her face softens.

"Why does it matter if I'm here or not, other than the fact that I saw it with you, Peeta?" I grow frustrated with this question. I've answered it, in some variety or another, about a thousand times so far.

"Because I love you." I say shortly.

"I don't know what that means!" she bursts out, and when I look at her expression, it's one of misery. She truly does not grasp this concept of romantic love, or she's that afraid of it, or both. My heart softens again. Will it always be so soft? I can't bear to see anyone suffering, least of all her. I set the tray down on the floor by the bed and lie down next to her again, supporting my head with one cocked elbow.

"Do you want me to explain?" I ask patiently.

"Yes." She whispers.

I start slowly but gain momentum as I speak. "It means that when I wake in the morning, the first thing I ask myself is if you're okay. When I sleep at night, the last thing I ask myself is if you're okay. It means the touch of your mouth or the smell of your hair or the feeling of you reaching for me makes me forget all of it…everything…even just for a little while, because I'm so grateful to have you here with me. It means I'll wait for you, as long as you need, until you tell me to my face that you don't want me anymore. It means that I spend the day thinking of ways that I might make you smile, counting off in my head all the things you love: the primroses by the door, goat cheese, the smell of a fire, the absolute silence of the woods just before you make a shot that's dead-on, that bread with the garlic in it, your father's coat wrapped around you…that thing I do with my fingers." I add this one to lighten the mood, smiling while I say it. "It means I try to figure out what you're going to say before you say it, and when I look in your eyes I know what kind of day you've had, sometimes even what triggered it. You fill up my days, Katniss. You drive away my nightmares. You help me to hope again." My tone is emotional now. "I just think you're beautiful and smart and fearless and luminous. The first time you told me you loved me, I thought I could die on the spot and be happy." There's one more I want to add, something I want to say to her, but I know that it would cross that unspoken boundary, that I would see the dawning understanding and light flooding her eyes flicker out, that I would lose her. So I don't. This is enough. I fall quiet. My eyes have dropped, and I'm afraid to look at hers. I'm afraid to breathe. I'm afraid to not be enough. But there it is, and now she has all of me. I don't know what other means I have to help her understand. I feel my eyes begin to fill in the silence. _Stupid, so stupid, so stupid and scared. _

And then, there's her hand, tipping up my chin. She must see the shine in my eyes, and I wonder, _is it always going to have to be her, to be strong?_ _Or do I have some kind of strength that's just different? _

"You've done more for me than I could ever have dreamed possible," she says, enunciating clearly. Then she kisses me. She does not say she loves me, but I feel it in the kiss as she swings over me again, bends down low as I lie prone and wrap my arms around her waist as far as I can get them. She rests her forehead against mine. I'm breathing heavily, though whether from the kiss or the emotional expenditure I can't tell. I don't know how, but as we move together again, our hands begin to stray. The kisses are passionate, wet and filled with need and with the words that don't exist to finish what I need to say, perhaps what she does. The touches are desperate fumblings, hands on cheeks and napes and tangled in hair, hands on my chest, drawing me in, the slow drag of fingernails that makes me groan aloud. All I can feel is soft skin, hot mouth, thick, silky hair, and heat. So much heat. We're panting, sweating, even on top of the bed in the cool air. Katniss is whispering my name into my mouth. I feel like she's trying to devour me. I've never seen her in such fervor. Intensity burns from her eyes and her mouth and her pores. She is utterly without fear. She is as beautiful and powerful and dangerous as a bird of prey. As a roaring fire. I close my eyes and let myself be consumed. It's all I can do to hang on to her, to try to meet those crushing kisses with what, from my end, would be gentle ones. I think achingly of how desperate I am to be inside her as her warm hand grips my cock, throbbing and sputtering. I try to imagine that tenacious heat, waiting for me, calling to me. Resting my weight on my palms as I watch her face, eyes wide with wonder, as I feel her shudder with pleasure all over, the sounds we'd make coming together, being closer than any two people could be. Feeling those strong legs wrap around me, listening to her moan my name as I rock her, kiss her neck, hold her close. For a moment, when I feel the wet heat, I think that my daydream has been so realistic that I'm actually projecting it onto where I am, as I begin to snap back to reality.

Katniss has shifted her weight off of me. Before I can open my eyes, my eyebrows furrow at the fluttering, sleek touch on the head of my cock. Are her hands wet? From herself? In the second before it registers and my eyes fly open with a jolt, I have just enough time to think, _that's her __**mouth, **__Peeta, not her…_

I'm not wrong. Katniss' steely eyes are looking up towards me, but even in their intensity I can tell she's curious, like a little kid, to see what kind of reaction she'll get. As I watch, she flicks the tip of her tongue over my slit. I get the kind of nervous self-consciousness she must have had on our last go-round, because I wonder briefly how I taste to her. She runs her tongue under the crown, teasing and tickling to see where the good spots are. It's only when I watch her lips engulf me that I find my voice and begin to moan. Colors, streaming tails of them, shoot off behind my eyes. I'm not even aware my hands are buried in her hair hard enough to hurt her until I feel her shiver, herself. I loosen them hastily, though I've noticed that—strangely for most people, maybe not for Katniss—she's kind of into pain when we play around. She takes me a little deeper, testing her capacities, maybe. She wraps her free hand around the base of me, holding on tight like I've taught her, and slides it up as her mouth moves free for a moment.

"Oh my _god,_ Katniss," I get out. "Where did that come from?"

"Ah, I guess you'll have to keep hanging around me to find out," she quips. Then, as though the marvel never ends, she states, "I want you to stand up while I do it."

"Holymotherofgodno," I say this as one long word.

She pouts. _Pouts._ "Why not?"

"BECAUSE YOU WILL KILL ME, WOMAN."

She starts laughing. "Next time?"

My voice is wobbly, "You mean they'll be a …next time?"

"If you're a good boy. And you know, Peeta, you're _always_ a good boy." She dips again, and I know it won't take long, especially with that last offer clanging in my head. _"I want you to…" _I begin to shudder as she closes on me again, begin to suckle gently at the head of my prick, her movements slow, tempting. I want to push forward with all my might as I feel my orgasm gather at the base of my spine and begin to move. But through sheer force of will I keep my hips low. Then, in horror, I reach down and take her shoulder, trying to sweep her aside, "Katniss, I'm…"

She won't move. She knows what I'm saying and she knows what I'm trying to do with the greatly diminished amount of strength in my arm, and she knows what will happen if she ignores me, but she stays put. And then I come. Then I come, and it is glorious, and everything in the world is blotted out. It doesn't take long for me to come out of it, but I wish it had. I wish it had, because my memory will never be able to capture that the way it truly was. The way it truly felt to see the deliberate knowledge in those curious grey eyes, feel the primal force of those possessive kisses, that first lap of…then I'm mortified. Mortified beyond all human ability to be mortified. I don't even want to look. Is so much of this going to be this awkward and mortifying? I'm jealous of the people who have the details ironed out. When I open my eyes, it's one at a time, and with a wince. Katniss stares deviously at me from her perch over my heaving chest. Her mouth is…her mouth is wet. Her mouth is…

Her mouth is descending on me, but the kiss is chaste, perfunctory. She, after all, has no idea if my reaction to my own taste will be as compelling as hers had been when I'd finished her that way. I wonder with both curiosity and unease if she'll find out one day. As in life, Katniss cannot be described as boring in bed, however virginal. She feels like a great mythical creature being set free, bright as the sun in her want, now that it's escaped.

"Okay?" she asks. This is something of a joke between us now.

"Um, yes, okay," I say. We're smiling. But then a frown crosses my brow, "Katniss, uh…don't feel pressured to, uh…"

"Peeta, I thought you were world-renowned for your silver tongue."

"You should talk," I get out. And then I realize that Katniss would no more feel pressured into this than she has into any other endeavor. She's not the pressuring kind, least of all from me, since dying comes up at the top of the list of things I'd rather do than ask Katniss to swallow my juices as I come. I shouldn't be completely shocked by now, after a few other unpredictable actions in this department, but I always am anyways. In those moments, I feel like maybe I don't know her at all.

She leans in and kisses my nose, my cheeks, my earlobes, my forehead. She is loving me now, not fucking me. Her face is serious.

"I'm going to be here for you more," she tells me solemnly. "I promise."

"When you're ready, I'll be waiting," I say. "In the meantime, we're just fine." And we are.

*Shout out to Mr. Ronald Weasley! ;)


	6. Walls Come Down, Walls Go Up

**I know I've been posting Chapters alternating Peeta and Katniss' POV, but because of the story arc I'm working on, occasionally it's going to repeat back-to-back POV. This is one of those times!

I'm so glad I've gotten so much attention for my first ever fanfic! If you like it, please review. Thanks!

Friday is the day Johanna comes. Katniss is enthralled about the impending visit; she's been coordinating with Johanna by mail—sometimes phone—for months now. Travel between districts is not an easy thing, even these days. There were no systems in place to support regular mass transit of citizens between districts, since there was never a reason for us to visit one another. Even now, visiting across district limits is strictly monitored: some of the rail has been obliterated, and the hovercrafts and other flying machines are considered now to be too rare and important for such pedestrian matters. All of this makes the cost exorbitant, and makes it necessary for each person to file detailed papers about why they're going and for how long. Johanna is lucky she's a Victor in this way, I think, because it is still true that Victors get an extraordinary amount of liberty. Much more than the average person. Katniss and I have been asked by the interim President, Paylor, to consult for the Capitol in the process of rebuilding, even offered esteemed seats in government if we want them. I think Beetee took them up on the offer; but Katniss and I have politely declined for now, citing our own shock and turmoil. Johanna, being Johanna, laughed in their faces. Paylor is compassionate about this; we would offer unbounded resources and ideas for the restructuring of government based on our experience living in an outlying district, but she knows that it was pieces of us that were sent back to 12, not whole human beings. The offers are standing offers if and when we decide we want them.

There are relatively few of us now, and all of us who fought in the war are household names, or so I'm told. Public, televised ceremonies were held shortly after the surrender for those on our elite team who lost their lives infiltrating the Capitol. What I remember most about it was Katniss hiding in a supply closet that she'd somehow managed to rig so that it was barricaded from the inside. I frown upon this idea that through avoidance, she can get beyond these horrors, but the results of my kicking down a door to drag out an unwilling Katniss Everdeen would have overshadowed the ceremony itself. The only other thing that's clear to me, from a time when I was still lost in a haze of uncertainty, hallucinations coming on full-bore every few hours, was Annie, barefoot, long dark hair streaming, pregnant belly just beginning to grow round and full, and looking uncommonly serene given the circumstances, placing white daisies on Finnick's casket…a casket that was, of course, empty. His body could never be recovered. Just thinking about it, I feel a surge of loss that makes me miserable and angry. I've never yet met Annie's son, since she left for home, for 4, soon after that, though of course, we sent our congratulations. It's another thing Katniss and I are hoping to do together once the dust begins to settle, visit her. The serenity I saw, I know, was her comfort about having, with nothing else, Finnick's child to love and care for, that piece of him that hopefully, can never be taken away from her. People hold Annie Cresta in high esteem now, with Paylor, Plutarch (whose grandstanding behavior is both completely expected and a total atrocity), Katniss and I, Beetee, Johanna, Gale, and of course, Haymitch too. Any simple requests we make tend to be honored; and we all have enough coin stored away to last a lifetime. So it isn't as hard for Johanna to get back to us as with most people. But it's good that she can; because I suspect Katniss needs a friend. It's not healthy for her to be constantly on her own, except for me, and sometimes Haymitch. More people are slowly trickling into 12; those who lingered in 13, afraid to return. More bodies help us rebuild more quickly, and new buildings will be going up this week. When asked if I wanted to help build a new bakery, and then take over running it, I hesitated only briefly before giving my consent. It's part of a process of moving on; and I need to make decisions about what to do now. I can't spend all my days roaming around aimlessly, painting and daydreaming and trying to shake off the hallucinations and the anxiety that still strike. Or I could, but I don't want to. I need a direction, a goal. But it can wait until after the visit; since Johanna will only be here a few short days. That's all even she can wrangle.

Friday she comes. Today is Thursday. Yesterday was Wednesday, the day Katniss triumphantly brought home a load of fish that we breaded together. It was delicious, Haymitch came over, and we made a good meal of it, almost like a family. We cooked; Haymitch drank. And later, sang, ha. But last night, she didn't stay over, citing a need to do a mysterious "something else." After dinner, she peeled off back home. Without her, idling at only 8 PM, my thoughts began to wander. Not to good places. Lying on the couch by the fire, watching the flickering lightning from a storm that night, when my eyes closed, a parade of blurry figures marched across my eyelids—faces that I didn't know, or maybe I knew them and just didn't remember. Low-pitched laughter. Agonizing pain, until they finally gagged me to make me stop screaming. And then the whispers, flickering images to watch with my eyes held open by some kind of device that made them ache, made them dry and painful. Katniss hunting, skinning, her hands covered in blood, shooting another tribute in the chest. Katniss superimposed upon flames, Katniss leaving me to die. And the constant disorientation, only seeing colors, dizziness, nausea, a cold steel backboard against my back, one dim bulb on the ceiling, never enough food. And the periodic injections that made me tremble and twitch and clench my jaw. My breathing is heavy and before the night is out, I'm crouched on the bathroom floor, my head in my hands, mumbling to myself, "Not real, not real." In a sick sort of way, it feels good to get it out. When Katniss is around I try constantly to fight it off, but as soon as she's gone, it comes in waves. I punch the doors when I have to. My knuckles are bloody today. In the lightning, no one heard me. But I got through it, and I find myself in one more new day.

And Tuesday…my thoughts flash back as I lie in my warm bath. I rose early this morning after my bad night, and I'm tired, but all I could think of was soaking in the hot, deep water that can fill my enormous bathtub. Tricking my body and my senses into feeling okay again, into leveling out. My knuckles sting when I lower them in, but my eyes close, and I listen to nothing but my own breathing in the dim room as the sun rises. Today I will see Katniss, find out what that secret was all about…get my kisses…

Tuesday. These thoughts are entirely different, light up centers of my brain that are in completely different places. I'm all alone, so I let my mind wander, let myself remember. Tuesday morning Katniss is washing clothes when I find her, out in the yard, banging them over a washboard in a bucket, which is still the most efficient method we have. Katniss owns all of three sets of clothing and she's not picky about how many times they get worn, so usually this is not a problem for her. She's kneeling in the dirt, smudges on her nose and cheek, humming something. When I get closer, I realize it's "The Hanging Tree." I wrap my arms around her from behind and she nuzzles into my shoulder kiss. "Hey, Peeta," she says. "Do you want a shower in a minute? I'm almost done. I got sap on _everything _yesterday trying to see if I could tap for syrup." She wrinkles her nose. "It sticks." In a little while, she's lathering my hair while she talks excitedly about Johanna, about gaining more information as to what's going on in the world, finding out how her friend is coping, meeting Johanna's giant dog that she's supposedly wrangling to bring. I'm closing my eyes and trying to keep track of what she's saying as she stretches up on tiptoes to work those delicate fingers into my thick hair. She's made good on her word; every day now she makes a point of asking how I'm coping, if she can do anything. She's freer with her kisses and touches, going so far as to take my hand while we're out in the market together or over dinner. When we wander out into my room afterwards to dress…again, I suppose Katniss will be wearing those pants of mine, since her own clothes are hanging to dry…I lean against the bed and reach for my pile of clothes as Katniss drops her shirt and reaches down to get it again. Suddenly, I find myself, half-preoccupied in getting dressed, glancing down to where she sits on her haunches, those devilish eyes gleaming up at me. She's still nude, sitting straight as a goddess.

"Oy," I say, smiling. That look always means something interesting is about to happen. "What?"

"You wouldn't let me kneel for you. Why not?"

I did think this conversation would come up eventually, but I'm not prepared for this. "What?"

"When I was sucking on you, you said no. Why?"

I begin to feel the first tingles of blood rushing downwards, which makes me bite the inside of my cheek. She's kneeling right beneath me. I need to keep my cool or else I'll find myself with an erection that aims right at her. I tentatively begin pulling my shirt over my head. "Because, Katniss, what you were doing…it was going to make me come…really fast, anyways. I didn't want it to happen any faster. In fact, I'd like to learn to make it last longer."

She cocks her head. "Why would it have gone faster if I changed positions?"

"Because there are certain connotations to that position."

"What if I just wanted to see how the angle was?" Innocence is not something that has ever, so far as I can tell, existed in Katniss' eyes, not in at least ten years, anyways, so every time I see it glint there I smell a feint. My cock grows imperceptibly just having this damn conversation.

"It has connotations of service, Katniss," I plow through, "Sacrifice. Control. Power. I would think you of all people would be careful not to find yourself on the bottom end of a power imbalance after _all that_. I say "all that" in such a way that it suggests her entire life, and she chuckles. I know, watching her, that she knows these things. That these things, in fact, might be FUELING what she desires. My cock is twitching, now, and I'm biting my lip, because my cock wants to think more about all those things I just said, even if my brain doesn't. She still perches there, but her eyes drift to my half-erect penis and then back again.

"What if I want that?" she says quietly. "I trust you. I do." She tilts in and kisses that sensitive spot just below my hip, on my bad side. I'm still futilely reaching for my pants behind my back, except I don't want them. I want to see what she's doing. I watch those eyes for clues.

"Wasn't this in your long list of masturbatory fantasies?" she teases.

"No," I answer honestly. It was all I could do to dream that I would ever have her do what she's done, in any capacity, much less that she would physically take a posture that makes her vulnerable in order to do it.

"You should have," she says. "Let's try."

I hold her back by the shoulders and look suspicious. "This isn't like you. You're always the _more_ powerful, Katniss. It's who you are. I don't understand." I'm frustrated that the gravity of my words seems belayed by the fact that my aching cock is at full attention now. She moves forward, raises up on her knees until her face is level, slides her hands around my bare thighs and up over my ass, cupping my hipbones. I shiver.

"You want to know something I've learned, Peeta?" she asks, just before all conversation ends, "I can't be in control of everything, all the time. Sometimes I'll just have to trust you to do it."

Her mouth descends, and there I am, in the middle of a sun-filled bedroom, staring down at my lover as she pulls me in, so gently. Resigned, I reach down and cup her breast, tweak the nipple gently. She gives those first soft flickering laps at the head of my cock with that achingly soft flat of her tongue, and in her throat, I hear a sound… "Mmmm." It occurs to me that Katniss actually enjoys this act herself, apart from enjoying it because it gives me pleasure. I wonder why I would assume that she's been humoring me on anything, as though it wasn't in her to be aroused be giving me pleasure, but here she is. Little moans and whimpers and sighs and hums come from deep in her throat as she flexes those strong thighs to raise herself and take me deeper, using her hands to guide me and pull me in. I give just the tiniest little thrust into that hot, open mouth, because my hands are lost in her hair and I can't bear it if I don't, and she opens up to take it, welcoming it from me. Her hair tickles my thighs. She kisses along my shaft and bends lower, her probing lips and tongue reaching for my balls. She licks along them and then, as my back arches, pushing me ever deeper, and I cry out, she suckles one into her mouth, ever so gently, as one warm hand rolls the other. She strokes the sensitive patch beyond them. Her searching eyes find mine even as I watch her take me, inch by inch, tonguing the underside of my crown teasingly as she does. I hold her gaze, and it sounds positively perverse, but she looks beautiful as always, that lithe nude body sparkling with leftover shower water, long dark hair in a corona, that sense of mischief and worship as she sighs her pleasure into her throat. I can tell she's still nervous about taking all of me in…I can't imagine how her little mouth even manages now…but her slippery hands wrap around the base and twist with her mouth, and when I close my eyes, I can't tell the difference. She's right, it does make me feel different, just the shift in position. Lasers of sensation shoot through my physically, but there's also an immense sense of possession that seizes me psychologically. I wonder if it's similar for her.

"Yes, don't stop," I whisper as she takes me deeper, sucking on my length in earnest now, alternating between gentle attention to my head, to the leaking slit at the top. I watch her lap the start of my juices from it. That leaden sensation gathers in my balls, and I tense. She pulls my hips in to steady me and keeps her rhythm. This time, I don't try to sweep her away when I come, because I know it's not what she wants. I take that control she offers me, with an immense sense of reverence, and I hold her head close to me. I'm trembling all over, my knees weak.

"Katniss, Katniss, please…" I whimper to her, and then I'm sliding and the edge is looming. I let myself go as my hips begin to twitch upwards, but she rides the twitches, rides with her mouth my pushing deeper as I come. I can see her throat move as she swallows my juices, her eyes closed, looking utterly at peace, and this makes me howl, my final contribution. Katniss delicately begins to clean me, which almost makes me ask her to wait around another twenty minutes or so and do it again. With careful flickers of her tongue, she swipes the remains of my come off me, licking her lips, and then sits back on her haunches again, only this time, she presses her face into my thigh. I cup her head in one hand, and we both breathe heavily for a minute.

"Wasn't that worth it?" she finally gets out. I nod fervently. When she rises, I reach reflexively between her bare knees and can see that she's positively dripping with need for me.

_This girl will kill me_. If the Games gave me all this, I cannot ever argue that they took everything away. We, among 75 years of Victors, are the ones who can say we gained something unimaginably wonderful from it all.

I close my hand over her wetness and lean in, and we kiss, openmouthed and full of desire. "Thank you," I whisper into her mouth, hot breath together. "Do you want me now? I'll hand back all the control…" But she shakes her head, to my disappointment.

"I want to want you, all day long, whatever I'm doing," she says, reaching for the clean underwear she's finally given in and placed in the drawer I offered her months ago, for convenience. "I want to feel the want, the reality of it; every time I think of you, I want to suffer." This last bit she purrs, stepping in again to kiss my neck. The thought of her going about all day in this condition, remembering all the past events and potential future occurrences, keeps my knees weak. It's like a secret no one knows but us.

As the sun begins to fully rise and I drift free of my daydream, I realize that I have come, all on my own, while thinking about it. I don't even remember touching myself. This effectively signals that my bath is over. I drain it and climb out. It's true, Katniss must be enjoying the suffering, because we haven't touched each other since then. I wonder if she's done it to herself. I couldn't possibly go without masturbating, especially since all this began. I'd think about sex every single minute of the day without. Even with, I manage about 16 out of every 24 hours. I dress and grab some bread to throw in a sack for Haymitch. I try to look around and see if we have anything else fit for him to eat, but honestly, it's hard enough to get him to eat anything at all. I jog across the green to his house and pound on the door.

"Haymitch! Are you up?" This is moot. He's always up all night, so he shouldn't even yet be settling in until about now. He doesn't like to sleep in the dark ever since the Games. I marvel for a moment that, almost 30 years later, it never quite left him. I take that to mean I should never really expect it to. I hear a guttural sort of groan from inside and take that to mean yes. As I push the door, it hardly moves until I put my shoulder into it. As soon as I enter, I see why. Piles of trash and booze bottles, discarded paper, shredded apple peelings cover everything. Ever since Hazelle and the little ones went with Gale to his new post, Haymitch can fall easily back into his squalor. I make a mental note to ask around and see if anyone wants to take over on this front. The stale scent of vomit pervades the air. When I push my way in, I see one of the more obvious issues: for some reason known only to him, Haymitch has been watching a tape of the Quarter Quell, the last one. I don't even know where he got it from. This was never required viewing with the new government, though they provided copies of the footage to those of us who were involved if we wanted them. I have one myself, not to watch it, but just to have it, as proof, maybe. As a reality. I didn't know Haymitch had one, too, though. He's passed out on the living room floor with it still playing. I wince as I look up and see another tribute, one I don't know, trekking through a silent forest. Then it cuts to Johanna, looking clearly exasperated as she yells at Beetee and Wiress—obviously before she got around to finding us…as ominous looking clouds gather above. She seems to be trying to move them towards the beach, and she's having a time of it. _The blood rain_, I think. I cross to the television with long strides and turn it off.

"Haymitch!" I yell, prodding him with my boot. "Why the hell are you watching this nonsense? It's no wonder this place is a mess, and so are you." This is familiar and accepted territory, but of course it makes me frustrated nonetheless. An empty bottle of white liquor is beside his head, another is shattered against the wall….no, two. If he'd had a gun, this entire place would be buried in shards.

"Peeta, keep it down, my head hurts," he slurs, barely stirring. I grab his arm and haul him up to the couch. I hand him a loaf of bread. "Here, eat this. Soak up some of that booze in your stomach."

"What if I want it there?" he grumbles, but takes a bite. He makes a face, and it's not because of my cooking. I doubt he can even think at the moment. I was going to tell him about Katniss coming around, but I'd rather do it when he's going to remember.

"Eat it anyways," I say evenly. "Are you coming with us tomorrow morning to meet Johanna at the station?"

He squints. "Johanna?"

"Johanna _Mason?_ From district 7? Remember? She's coming tomorrow?" I'm losing patience. I wish he'd do something—anything—with himself besides this. I wonder if he misses real life or even remembers what it's like.

"Tomorrow's far away," he mutters. "I have today first. Where's Katniss?"

"Dunno," I say. "She said she had something to do last night and disappeared."

"Probably shooting something. Or skinning it. Or cutting its head off. Or another of those fun extracur…extracurriculars she has." He hiccups. "All your dreams coming true, yet, Loverboy? I heard you might actually have a job soon besides trying to win her affections by any means necessary."

"Yeah," I say shortly, "They need a baker, and well, who better."

"See if she wants in on that," he tells me. I laugh. Katniss, a baker?

"Haymitch, give me a break. She hunts all day."

"She hunts for three hours, Peeta." He says this slowly, like I'm an idiot. Immediately, I feel like one. Did I really think she was out there all day hunting?

"The rest of the time she lies around and thinks too much," he mumbles, chewing. "Let her try if she wants to, anyways. She likes to learn. Some things, anyways." I can tell he's considering the cooking aspect of this particular means of employment. "If she hates it, let her be. It'd be good for you two to work together on a task."

"What about you?" I ask. "What will get you back to normal?" He rises unsteadily, opens a cupboard, and slams another bottle down on the side table.

"I am back to normal," he says, in a tone that is dreary, sad, dangerous and clearly signals the end of the discussion. "Is she?"

"Getting there. I hope. Seems like it." That's all I give, for now. I throw the sack of rolls on the table. "Expect to see you there tomorrow, Haymitch," I say on the way out.

By now the sun's fully up, and I actually do have plans today. I head into town and meet up with the building crew. The site upon which they're choosing to build the new bakery is not the same as the site of our old one, which is good for me. The men on the crew know me and like me. They clap me jovially on the shoulder as I come in. Some of them are men I recognize from 13, who have probably volunteered to come help us in the districts. I'm thankful for their kindness. We spend the day hauling loads, carrying stones for the fireplaces, stacking and mortaring the bricks to make a foundation. The work is hard and I'm sweating by noon, but it's good. It makes me feel stronger and more whole. It makes the hours pass faster and the demons feel further away. Haymitch is right. Katniss needs something to focus more hours on—maybe not baking, that remains to be seen, but something.

It's late afternoon when I see her in the distance, striding across the Meadow. She's confident when she walks, her posture as straight as a ruler. Slung across her back I notice her game bag is bulging. I shield my eyes from the sun and follow her with them until she crests the hill, begins down it, ducks through the fence, and disappears from view. I'd guess she's trading. It's about time for me to wrap up, anyways.

"You're good," says my foreman, a man named Luceid, when he sees me watching her. I apologize, but he waves me away. "Go home, Peeta. Come by tomorrow if you feel up to it. Thanks for the help."

"Thank _you," _I tell him, and strip my helmet and gloves off before I walk over towards where I saw Katniss head, down the road a bit. I'm sweaty and covered with grime, but I go anyways. When I find the Hob and pull the down open, sure enough, she's talking amiably to Sae, who is holding a handful of squirrels and an opossum by the tail. Katniss has rabbits stuffed into her belt, too. Sae picks what she wants and Katniss slurps soup out of a gourd as they talk. I sneak up behind her, and wrap my arms around her, "Boo."

She whirls and I could tell if I weren't pinning her bow, she'd have strung it by now. I forgot for a moment how jumpy we've gotten when surprised. Her face relaxes, though, and it's a mark of her growth when she merely wrinkles her nose at me and says, "You stink," rather than ripping me a new asshole. I reach over her head and cup it in my armpit.

"Eww!" She squeals, just like a girl for a minute, and swats me away. Sae is laughing. I kiss her cheek. She resumes trading, getting some good cloth and thread, candles, soap, dry goods, tea. She keeps a rabbit for us, though. Once it gets warmer, she'll have even more. When she's done, we walk home together, talking about our days. Katniss ducks into her own house to retrieve something, though, as I walk upstairs to shower off all the grime. I'm toweling my hair when she calls from downstairs.

"Peeta, I'm going to screw this up without you!"

I throw on some pants and head down. She's got a rabbit stew going, and is attempting to toast my bread, since we have actual butter this week, but she can't do both at once without burning it. I notice she's already managed to figure this out. I try not to smile and obediently take over on the bread. The crusty chunks will be perfect for dipping into the gravy. I wish we had lemons for the tea, but I don't even remember the last time I saw one.

"I made something last night," she says around a mouthful of food. I hand her more bread and she swallows, "Want to see when we're done?" She sounds almost shy.

"Yes," I confirm, "If you want to show me. Are you excited about Johanna?"

She lights up, "Yes! She'll be in around 9. I can't wait to hear about what's going on by her and tell her everything that's been happening here."

"Everything?" I raise my eyebrow.  
>"Especially those parts," she says, "<em>In very great detail.<em>"

I don't know for sure that she isn't kidding, but I laugh anyways. I can't help it. I sincerely hope I don't have to be razed by Johanna Mason for the next forty years of my life, but maybe I'm underestimating her. Johanna is not new to the subject. I wish I had someone I go talk to in that department, actually. I can't talk to Delly explicitly about sex…or any girl, I don't think. I wish I had some male friends. _It'll get easier once more people begin coming_, I think resignedly. In the meantime, I guess I'm just accumulating stories, which hasn't turned out to be that bad.

We finish up and I do dishes, since Katniss mostly cooked. She disappears for a few minutes into the living room. When I'm done, I go looking for her. She's holding our sketchbook, her former family plant book, in both hands. She looks awkward, apprehensive.

"You don't have to show me," I say as I sit beside her. But I'm curious.

In answer, she opens the book towards the back and flips to a page that has no picture draw on it. Instead, there are words, lining up in neat paragraphs along the side. Space has clearly been left for a picture to be added.

"I'm not good with words, or pictures, like you," she says apologetically. When I put one arm around her and squeeze, I murmur, "You're good at other things." She quiets and I begin to read. To my surprise, it's me she's written about.

Peeta Mellark, says the heading, with my year and date of birth, and the names of my family members, the place I lived.

_Peeta Mellark is a Victor_, it says, underneath. _The best of the Victors, and the one who always followed his own heart and his own values. Peeta Mellark is full of love. He always double knots his shoelaces and likes to sleep with the windows open. His favorite color is orange. Peeta is a baker, and a painter. He is honest, open, gentle, patient and kind. Peeta is a loyal friend and a loyal love. He never gives up. His favorite season is fall, his favorite pants are the plaid ones with the drawstrings, and he can't travel through a forest without waking up everything living in it_….here I smile…_but he can travel long hours with little complaint, even on a false leg. Peeta Mellark is my best friend._ At this last, my eyes widen a little, and I look over to Katniss.

"Why did you write this?" I ask.

"Because I thought that you should be in there too, and you're not. You were one of the rest of us. Probably I should be, too. This is the story, after all, isn't it? This and your paintings?" She looks a little uncertain, as though I'm accusing her of doing something wrong. I place the book gently on the floor and ask the real question.

"Is that true?"

"About the shoelaces?"

"You know about what."

"Yes," she says. "I realized it that day I came home in the rain and there you were, with that plate set out in front of the fire and a robe for me. You sat and held me for an hour in the quiet after, and I realized that I couldn't do that with anyone else." I remember that night. She'd been chilled to the bone. The look of gladness that passed over her face at that hot fire and that warm meal had made me feel more sure, too.

I lean down, she lies back against the soft cushions on the couch, and I kiss her. She responds immediately, first with relief. I kiss her nose. "Thank you," I whisper, and she whispers it back to me. As our embrace grows more heated, she slips my shirt over my head and kisses my bare chest, stroking its contours, shaping them with her palms and fingertips. She's so beautiful, I'm awed. _I'm so lucky_, I think. It's an odd thought to have, after everything, but as those hands slide up my back, her fingernails raking up through the soft fuzz on the back of my neck and into my hair, as her mouth tips up to mine and her tongue slips inside to greet mine, I'm loss in a sense of need and bliss so deep it's bottomless. I hope against hope, one more hope after all these, that she'll be mine and stay with me forever, that I'll never be without her. I'm overcome with the thought, the emotion of it. I strip her of her clothes and our legs twine together as I kiss her breasts, gently, to watch the goosebumps rise, to warm them with my big hands, to listen to the soft sighs that emanate above me. We're both warm and drowsy and needy, I know. She's the needier of the two of us, the one who's more pent-up. Her hands quickly begin to stray, to lift the heaviness of my erection free. As I settle down over her, resting on my elbows, I'm acutely aware of how close I am to entering her. The length of me lies just along her slit. With one foot propping up her knee, I can feel the wetness waiting below as that light hand strokes me. She dips her fingertips into the moisture and draws it along my shaft and I realize I'm shaking. Her eyes are heavy-lidded.

Tugging me down, she whispers into my mouth, "I love you."

"I love you," I whisper back into hers. And then.

"Make love to me," she whispers, "I'm ready." I have to do a double-take at her first, but I do not have to ask again. It's written all over her. Her body pulls towards me, yearns upwards. I'm still shaking as I nod. _Oh, God,_ my brain tries to process at warp speed, _this is so fast. Will it be okay? Am I ready?_ I've come prepared; I threw a condom into the pockets of the few pairs of pants I had, just in case, never expecting….well, not for a long, long time…that it would come to this. Is it such a surprise? We've been leading up to it…but I was sure she wasn't ready. What if it changes everything? What if I get her pregnant by accident? What if all this is still part of the reaction of her getting over this? It hasn't been that long. Haymitch never got over his own issues with the Games after _30 years._ She asked me to take more control; was this what she meant? Do I need to decide when to make this move? I'm terrified as I reach for the condom. She smiles when she sees it, and I can see how open she is, waiting for me. I tear it open and she helps slide it over me with sure fingers. I settle over her. I gaze into those eyes, which are now silvery in their expectation, stroke her soft dark hair with my fingers. She trusts me this much. I want to live up to it. I love her more than life. She's still growing back into herself. Faster, surer now than when we first came back, but neither of us is at 100%, not even 80%. Maybe not even 60. On bad days…

She's ready for me to close the gap between us, and her eyes close in anticipation. And I want it more than anything. One push, and there is nothing in the world separating me and the girl I love, who loves me. But I stop. And I don't. I can't entirely explain why, not even to myself. _Come on, _I think, _are you sick in the head? Are you crazy? Move!_ But I don't. I lean down as her eyes open questioningly and kiss her forehead, cup her face in one hand. My face must look heartbroken.

"I love you so much, Katniss. I'm so sorry, I just…can't. I'm not ready. It doesn't change anything…" But by the middle of my sentence, her face is clouding up, closing down, and I see all the love there whiffed out, only hurt and confusion.

"Wait!" I begin, "Don't…" _Oh my god, what did you DO?_

"It's fine, Peeta. You're right, it's too soon. Thanks for pointing that out." She grabs for her clothes and in the time it takes me to even begin to understand the monumental mistake I've made, letting it get that far only to shut her down, she's dressed. "Katniss, let me explain!" I call.

All I hear is the sound of the door, slamming shut. I lean down and put my face in my hands, and my elbows on my knees. One more night of nightmares, alone, faces me, and these will be worse than ever, because I won't be imagining them.


	7. In Which A Visitor Comes to Call

My brain can't process, and that's what's making my head pound. I have no points of reference, plus I'm furious, exhausted, confused, humiliated, and miserable. _I went out on a limb for you!_ I think, _I trusted you!_ I feel betrayed, too. As though Peeta treated my willingness as something that came easily and would come again any time he felt like it. Not ready? Why didn't he say that before? **Peeta, **not ready? I thought I was the one who was supposed to pull back. Why did I let things get so far?

Only the fact that I have a responsibility to Johanna keeps me from going to Haymitch's tonight, borrowing his stock, and drinking myself into oblivion. And oh, I'm sure high-and-mighty Peeta would love that. Let him try to get in my way. I could go up in flames, I'm so furious. But the curious thing is, I'm mostly furious with myself. I feel like I've been set back ages now, just by this one act. I feel closed, and more, I feel like I can't help it; like the automatic doors in the Capitol elevators, my heart is mine alone again. I don't even attempt to sleep. I do something my doctor tried to teach me the first time he came to visit me here, saw me hollow-eyed with exhaustion from the nightmares, from the anxiety. Exercise. I curl my feet under the bureau in my bedroom and do sit-ups. I do arm curls with the small sacks of flour Peeta's left in the kitchen. I do push-ups with my feet on a chair…a respectable amount of them, actually. I exercise until my body hurts, and then I lie on my bed, face-up, staring at the ceiling. I'm even more aggravated by the fact that I'm still turned on! How could we get so close? I wasn't lying to Peeta…I felt ready, in the moment. We've already been so intimate with each other anyways; knowing every place to kiss, everywhere to draw sighs and moans and pleas. Peeta knows my body and my mind. I thought I knew his. I guess I was wrong. I have no idea where to go from here. How can you avoid someone who lives next door, cooks half your sustenance, and is one of maybe fifty people total that lives in your town? This is the riddle now for me.

I stare at the ceiling, noting all the little chinks and imperfections in the paint, until the sun begins to rise. I do not cry, even though I want to. My eyes will be red enough for the lack of sleep. I am not going to spend the night having nightmares about both things that happened months ago and things that happened hours ago. Instead, I wait for Johanna, alone. But I leave for the station early, maybe 7 AM. The Peacekeepers that guard it let me respectfully through, and I sit on a bench, alone in the chilly air, my breath drawing clouds of steam. When I reach into my coat pocket, there it is: the length of rope that came from Finnick. I can't let myself think too deeply about this right now: about anything that will make me feel more anxious, more unstable. I make knots, untie them, make knots, untie them. I wonder if anyone else will show their face. As angry as I am at Peeta, it's not fair for Johanna to be greeted by only me, after so many months. I know how lonely she feels already, most of the time. Sure enough, Peeta and Haymitch show up around quarter to nine…apparently they've hedged their bets on time. This, I know without asking, is because Peeta's been up too, and went over there. His eyes are redder than mine, and Haymitch has a grim set to his mouth that lets me know that now is not the time, but when he gets alone with me, he has words for me. I don't care. The way I feel now I could pin him to the wall with arrows by his shirtsleeves and leave him there. _Figures,_ I think bitterly, _he would take Peeta's side._ This is childish. Haymitch doesn't really take sides, in the colloquial sense. He quietly scopes out the evidence and makes judgment calls based on the facts as well as his own understanding of Peeta's and my personalities. It's just me who happens to be rude, abrasive, stubborn, moody, demanding. People think I don't know these things about myself, but I do. I've never had the impetus to change them, however, and some of these traits have keep me alive. This shell has kept me alive.

Peeta is hedging sideways glances at me and I'm pretending not to notice. When I stand, I stand straight and tall, and look straight ahead. I project onto myself more calm and confidence than I actually have. I will not let myself think about how just yesterday, we would've been hand-in-hand, waiting here together for our friend. Then, blessedly, the train pulls in, and I stop thinking about it. For now. My last fleeting thought is that maybe Johanna will have some kind of answer for what the hell to do now. Johanna lacks the innocence of say, Madge, who would have looked thunderstruck if I even got to our second adventure. The train slows, and slows, and then stops. A door to a compartment slides open, and all of a sudden, a giant, yellow dog leaps out, trailing a leash that clearly is not doing its job. The dog, joyful tongue lolling out of its mouth, leaps.

He lands on me and knocks me back into the bench. I see Peeta make a movement out of the corner of my eye as if to help me. _Don't you dare, _I think immaturely. He stops himself. I'm laughing. The dog is licking my face, its paws on my chest, its tail wagging madly. It's hard to associate this elated, good-humored creature with the dangerous girl I remember. This dog must weigh as much as I do. I'm trying to get him under some kind of control, but he's sniffing me everywhere. I remember that I probably smell of cat and grin. _Oh, Buttercup, what an excellent opportunity to traumatize you for life._

All of a sudden, there she is. Her hair is in a boy's cut, brushed forward, but it's shiny, and her skin is clear. She's gained muscle and I wonder fleetingly if her doctor offered up the same suggestion. She's wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, a black leather jacket over that, and pants made of some rough material, tucked into boots. She looks the closest to an individual human being, out of the Capitol's Games uniforms and 13's drab grey coveralls, than I've ever seen her. And more, she's smiling. A knife is still stuck in her belt, and I notice she eyes the grey clouds…clouds that match my mood…with anxiety, which means she probably still has an issue with water, but she looks like Johanna Mason to me. I shove her dog off my lap just as she yells, "Get down, you dumb furball!" When I rise to greet her, she's already moving toward me first. We hug, and I hold on to her fiercely. She's another that I have left, one who was there with us, and our animosity towards each other has dissipated in the wake of so much respect and the loyalty that comes with not being with the Capitol, but against it wholeheartedly. She whispers in my ear, "What's up, Girl on Fire? How're you healing up?" and flicks the scar tissue on the side of my neck with her fingernail. From anyone else this would be annoying, but from Johanna, it makes me grin.

"I'm okay," I tell her, "How are you?" …and I realize that I mostly am, despite everything. I'm here, aren't I? She's here. Peeta and Haymitch are here. We're a tough bunch.

"Oh, you know," she says ambiguously, and leans down to roughly scruff and pet the dog. "D'ya like him? Sorry. He's a little disobedient and unruly." Like Johanna, I figure. I do like the dog. It's nice to have a dog around. I haven't even SEEN a dog since 12 blew up. I tell her so. Then she turns and spots Peeta and Haymitch. Peeta is smiling, despite his red eyes and the circles under them. For just a second, I feel foolish, selfish, looking at those eyes, which deliberately avoid my own. For just a second I feel like maybe I got it wrong. But then Johanna's throwing her arms around him, and he picks her up easily and swings her around like Finnick used to.

"Good to see you, Johanna," he says, and his voice is full of emotion. I know it's the same emotion I feel seeing her, the relief of knowing that she managed to overcome all she did and get out, get to a better life. But for just a second, an uncommon flash of jealousy bubbles up as I watch him hug her with those strong arms. Haymitch even looks sober as she turns to him, which is amazing, since I had figured he probably wouldn't even remember to show up without Effie around to ferry him to his deadlines.

"Hi, sweetheart," he says to her genuinely when Peeta lets go. She smiles to him and he reaches out to hug her briefly. Even the Peacekeepers watching this exchange look pleased. They're smiling. Everyone enjoys all the little joys they can get after the war, even the joys of others. One has followed her off the train and is holding a battered valise. It appears to be all she brought, besides the dog. She snatches it and hoists it over her shoulder easily.

"C'mon, Mutt," she calls as we turn to head back home towards the Village. I begin snickering when I hear this.

"His name is **Mutt_?_**" I ask. I'm not sure whether to be affronted by this, but it is indeed very Johanna. She smiles that wicked grin of hers, a glint in her eyes.

"My therapist says it's good to form new positive associations with things."

I'm still laughing. Peeta looks a little more taken aback. Haymitch, like me, guffaws. "Johanna, it's never as much fun without you," he grunts. She hauls off her bag without asking for help, the dog immediately coming to her side when she calls. We all pass through the station and turn towards home. Johanna has her arm slung casually around my shoulders. I'm making sure to be on the outside, as far as I can get from Peeta. Johanna doesn't miss much—this is a side effect of being a Victor, that you're hyperaware—and I see her eyes skate quizzically between Peeta and I, back and forth. She holds her tongue though, for which I'm grateful. I've kind of held off on the details in our letters. They can still be intercepted, since the new government is trying to ferret out traitors. My name would be the easiest one to use as a cover. I accept this, though. We'll have time to catch up later. And boy, do I need it.

"I'm staying with Katniss," she announces, as though she's picked up on my mental wavelengths. It's the obvious choice anyways, since staying with Peeta would garner some strange talk around town, and she's closer to me anyways. Haymitch offers to have her join us for dinner tonight, which makes me smirk, because he's never the one that cooks any of it. Peeta and I have accepted the fact that that's our job. But I don't mind. I just resent the potential awkwardness of the situation after last night. I could try to find time to talk to him about it, I know, but truthfully, I don't even want to look at him. If I'm only admitting to myself, it's mostly out of humiliation and disappointment, but my nose is in the air around the others, like I'm too good for him. If I don't look at his face, I don't have to face the misery that sits upon it or trouble myself with his motivations or emotions. This is cold, _but cold is my style_, I think bitterly. This is self-protection, and I know it well.

The others wave to her with a promise to see her later, and as soon as they turn…I note that they're both heading towards Haymitch's again. More time for Peeta to wail about how rotten I am. As soon as they turn, Johanna grabs me by the scruff of the neck and whirls me with surprisingly speed and strength. I forgot that she can keep up, especially if she catches me off guard. Johanna's not a Victor coincidentally.

"What's going on?" she demands. "Something's off."

"Tell you later," I mutter.

"Is it juicy?" she teases.

"Was," I answer, "Until I got smoked."

She laughs. "**Katniss Everdeen** got smoked? Oooo, your ego!" This immediately aggravates me, because she's the one pinning _me_ to the wall now. It **is** ego. Not only ego, but definitely ego, somewhere. "Shut up," I say, good-naturedly, though. Before she lets the dog in, I go upstairs and throw Buttercup into a spare bedroom. He's spitting at me, trying to catch me with his claws, and I swear at him in response.

"Yeah, I should just leave you out. You'd love that, you shithead." I slam the door.

Johanna bangs into the house with the dog in hot pursuit. He leaves muddy pawprints everywhere, and I could not care about this in the slightest. The three of us pound up to my room to drop off her things. She can have my bed if she wants. There are other bedrooms. I won't be sleeping anyways so it doesn't matter much. The dog is sniffing everything. She looks around at the spare décor and nods.

"It's hard building everything all over again," she says, looking out the window.

"It's hard saying anything is hard," I reply. She nods. This is what I need. Communication that makes sense without having to explain every little thing. Sometimes I feel like I'll only ever really be able to talk to the five or so people in the world that can do this with me, because everything else feels shallow and exhausting. I'm not the celebrity type. I cross and stand next to her.

"Want to hunt?" I ask. I have no idea if Johanna is interested in this or not, but I know she's good with weaponry and a fair shot, and not afraid of the woods, and I know that it'll be both easier and more fun with two of us.

"Hell yes," she says without hesitation. "My doctor completely forbid my going near weapons under any circumstances. Which means I'm thrilled for you to finally offer me some." I'm smiling.

"What would you need them for, now, Johanna?" I ask.

"What would you need them for, now, Katniss?" she mimicks. This is another spot-on observation. I could buy all my food for the rest of my life if I wanted to.

"I have a stop to make first," I tell her, and sling my game bag over my shoulder. Johanna belatedly realizes that there's no way for her to bring her dog without him chasing off everything within a fifty mile radius. On our way out, she yells, in a voice that could break my eardrums, "OY! PEETA!"

Peeta's head emerges from Haymitch's kitchen window. "What?" he yells back.

"Can you take him?" Johanna indicates the dog, "For awhile?"

Peeta looks back over his shoulder and I can tell he's wondering what's going to happen when this monster barrels into Haymitch's. But he can always take Mutt back to his own place, should it come to that. "Sure!" he calls.

"Go, Mutt," says Johanna, and she points. He licks her hand and goes obediently over to Peeta. "Sometimes he decides to listen to me," she confides. "I think mostly when he wants to do whatever I ask him to, anyways. Not unlike you."

We walk down the path to town. I need to visit the Hob. When we open the door, I remember that Johanna's never been in here, though she must have heard me speak about it. She looks around with interest.

"This whole thing used to be a black market? Wow, they let you guys get away with an awful lot. We couldn't have managed this for a week without everyone in here getting shot point-blank in the square as an example to the rest of us." This reminds me of the stories Rue would tell me about her own district. Being the furthest outlying district had its perks, I guess. Johanna and I find Ripper. She greets me cheerfully and I introduce Johanna.

"Shopping for Haymitch?" she asks wryly.

"Nope. Me today," I say. I'm 18 now so she can't make noises about it, but again, I forget how much privilege just being **me** lends me now. No one will tell me no on anything anymore. I wonder to what extent I've become comfortable exploiting this. It makes my conscience a little uneasy. She sells me a bottle of white liquor. Johanna is grinning wickedly by now. She thanks Ripper obsequiously and I'm glad the old woman doesn't know she's making fun of me. And her.

That's all I need and Johanna won't need supplies, since I have plenty, so we head out. As soon as we're a good distance away, she headlocks me. I squawk indignantly.

"Aww, our little Katniss, are you a Haymitch prodigy now?" she teases.

"No," I say, "I just had the worst night in awhile last night and I was hoping you could help me either figure it out, drink it out, or both."

"SLEEPOVER!" Johanna yells. She keeps making me laugh despite my bad mood, and I realize with another wave of gratitude how happy I am to see her, and that the timing of her visit is perfect. Sleepover? Have either of us even had an actual sleepover in our lives, with girlfriends and fun things? I try to picture Johanna and I with our hair in pigtails, painting each other's nails. It's not an image I can pull up. She ducks under the border fence with me and drawls, "I feel like I'm in a **real life movie,** visiting the **actual district where Katniss Everdeen lives!** Take the tour! Shoot a deer! Trade in the black market! We have authentic coal dust! Our meals here are a great dieting opportunity if you're trying to lose weight!"

"Johanna!" I say exasperatedly. She's going to scare all the game away. But I remember the girl on the morphling, all alone and pale as a sheet, her head shaved, in a hospital bed, spitting at me. This girl is the girl that existed before the Games, or as close as I'll ever get to meeting her. This thought is so comforting, I cling to it. Johanna may have proven to be the most resilient of all of us. The girl just flat-out refuses to give up. She's boisterous and sarcastic and athletic and fun. I'm sure she has her spells of depression like all of us…she writes about them in her letters sometimes…but this girl is healing, for sure.

Once we're in the woods, she quiets. She's stealthy, like me, and small. Unlike Peeta, she can move through the woods with hardly a sound. I feel a pang as I slide free the bow and arrows that used to be Gale's from a hollow tree. Gale took his new high-tech weapons with him when he left. These live with mine now, and they're never used. I haven't even touched them, not even to move them into shelter with my own once I was able. They're painful to look at. I know them almost as well as I know my own. I hand them over to Johanna. "Any good with a bow?" I ask her, trying to remember if I ever saw her shoot one.

She shrugs. "I'm okay, but I have no problem with blood and I can gut and clean things if you want. I'll bring up the rear."

She's good backup, and I'm coveting her presence by the time I take down two rabbits and three guinea fowl, which she plucks and cleans like she's been doing it her whole life. She's also managed to take down a badger with a bad leg on her own, and when I look over again, I see her popping handfuls of a grey-green berry into her mouth. These are not berries I've ever tried, being wary of them in general and unsure of the nature of these, but clearly she knows them, since she appears to be fine. A pile of them are gathering on a cloth near her feet; she's skinning, gathering and eating simultaneously.

"You'd have done just fine out here," I remark. But just then she spots some kind of bird of prey perched on a branch not too far above us. I just have time to admire its beauty before Johanna has drawn her knife and thrown it with impressive force even as she yodels a warrior's yell. The bird drops in seconds. When I look at her, her teeth are bared. I'm reminded again that this girl is as much a survivor as I am, every bit as lethal. She gathers it up and smiles at me, "Doing good, huh, Girl on Fire?"

"Better than good," I admit. "What are those berries?"

"Trapper's berries. I don't know what they're really called. They have them at home. They're good." She offers me a handful. They taste a bit like elderberries.

When we have a haul so big we can hardly carry it back in, we quit for the afternoon. Bent over with game, we head back into town. I trade generous quantities of it at the dairy for our eggs, milk, butter, cheese, and more at the makeshift butchery they've set up on the outskirts of the square. The stores are not usually large, since we don't get those kinds of animals—domesticated—very often. Ten is still scrambling to rebuild their herds. So the meat is expensive. But I can afford it, so I trade some of Johanna's kills for a side of beef and some bacon. My mouth waters at the thought of the dinner that awaits us. "Can you cook?" I ask Johanna.

"Sure," she says. This is good. This means she and Peeta can team up while I make some kind of excuse to escape. She'll want time alone to catch up with him anyways. We trudge back to my house and I bury the game I haven't sold in the ice outside the steps. The rest we drag into the kitchen. Greens for salad, Peeta's bread, beef. I think we have potatoes. Not the Capitol's food, but far better than we used to have. Once we lay out what we have, Johanna goes to fetch both her dog and Peeta, while I make an excuse to go shower. I offer it to her first, but she shrugs. I can tell from her clothes that she doesn't even much care about them. Still the water hang-up, probably. "I'll get around to it," she says, and disappears. I go upstairs and I do run a hot shower, but then I just sit in the bottom of it, head down, letting the water pour over my hair, slowly filling in again. It's good to be somewhere where my guard can come down. I bow my head over my knees and cry. I cry for a long time, counting on the hot water to cover my tears, even from myself. I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I've never done this and I hate trying to pretend I know what I'm doing when I don't. Clearly. I don't know what to do now. Doesn't Peeta want me? He kept telling me he did, but now I feel small inside, weak. I try to remember what he said in the moment, but I was so disoriented, I don't even remember his sputtered explanations.

I hear the activity from downstairs, but it'll be awhile before dinner, so here I sit, waiting for the salt to drain from my eyes and the water to soothe them. When I turn off the shower, I lie back on the floor of it, naked, my hands behind my head, air-drying as I try not to replay my humiliation over and over again. Time passes, but I don't know how much. I might even have drifted off for a little while. There are no dreams. Maybe I'm finally too tired for them. When I hear an earthshaking bang on my door, I jump up.

"KATNISSDINNER!" She says this like it's all one word and then I hear her pounding down the stairs. It occurs to me that she's probably lonely most of the time at home, without close friends. At least, she never refers to any in her letters or our phone conversations. I dress in fresh clothes and braid my hair. When I descend the stairs, the smell that hits me is delicious. Johanna and Peeta have truly worked miracles. They're sitting with Haymitch around the table, and the spread of food is marvelous. Johanna's tearing into one of Peeta's loaves with her teeth, not bothering to wait for me. They're chatting animatedly about the rebuilding of district 7. Much of the forests were burned, but Johanna is explaining how they're using the charred remnants to enrich the soil and grow new things. They're waiting for spring to see if it's effective, but it looks hopeful. They're shipping the small amounts they have around to the other districts, but luckily, many of us have access to wood anyways, now that the perimeter fences have been shut off and the forests around us are open. Guards are stationed to deter predators, but the forests are still an invaluable resource.

I don't eat as much as I might otherwise have, despite the fact that the meal is delicious. I'm also quieter than usual, but from Peeta's end, you could never tell he's perturbed by anything. He appears to have recovered: smiling, engaging, his usual genial self. Haymitch is talking with his mouth full as he compares notes with Johanna over who's around lately. He knows a lot more people than we do. They have some shared friends, it turns out. Haymitch is civil to me, but I know him well enough to know he's disapproving of my performance last night. _Well, _I think, _wait until you see my performance tonight._ I'm immensely looking forward to blacking out my straining thoughts for awhile. If Johanna has answers, maybe tomorrow will improve. If not, then at least I can bury myself for awhile. I haven't touched a drop of anything intoxicating since the announcement of the Quarter Quell, unless you count my prescribed sedatives, which I refuse to take when I'm on my own. I feel a little entitled to just get out of my own head for a time.

At the end of the meal, Haymitch and I agree quickly to do the dishes, since the others cooked. They retire to the fire in the living room, where I can hear Peeta telling Johanna about the bakery they're building now and his impending career. They're barely out of earshot in that room, so at least when Haymitch turns on me, he can't yell at me. And turn on me he does, instantaneously, although I'm studiously scrubbing dishes and ignoring him.

"Why does **everything** have to be your way, or else you throw a temper tantrum about it until someone gives you what you want?" he hisses at me.

"It's…none…of…your…business," I say through gritted teeth.

"Could you maybe try, hmm," …here he's both sarcastic and mocking, blinking his eyelashes and looking clueless, "…waiting around to communicate and compromise with people? Or is it Katniss' way or no way? Because that's a lonely life, sweetheart," he snarls. But he doesn't get to the last word, which infuriates me even more, before I've drawn one of the steak knives from the sink and stabbed it directly through the fabric over his left shoulder, pinning him to the wall. _Ahh, fantasies realized._

Haymitch, instead of going for my throat, just stands there. His eyes look reproachful. He shakes his head at me, and then says, wearily, "You can't fix everything by killing it, Katniss."

"Leave me alone," I snap, but all the bite has gone out of it and it sounds merely lifeless. "Think you can remember that, Haymitch? Just leave me alone."

I stalk from the kitchen, but what I remember is that reproachful look in his eyes.  
>When the dishes are done, the others excuse themselves and say goodnight to Johanna. I miss this part. I'm brooding in the living room staring into the fire, my arms curled around my knees like a stone. Johanna shuts the door and joins me. I pull the bottle of white liquor from my otherwise empty game bag, hung on the sofa, and thump it down on the floor in front of us. Johanna pulls the cork with her teeth and spits it out.<p>

"Sure you're good for this stuff, Girl on Fire?"

In response, I tip up the bottle and take a draw. It burns and I immediately begin coughing, as before. My eyes water everywhere. I can hear Johanna snickering. But it has the desired effect. My tense shoulders begin to lower from their perch around my ears. I pass it to Johanna and, neat as you please, she takes a swallow and hands it back.

"How do you **do** that?" I ask her, coming up for air.

She gives me a look that says, _Really?_

I decide that's adequate.

We settle back against the couch and I chance another swallow. The dog wanders in, stuffed with food like us, and settles at our feet. It's a little easier this time, though I still cough. Johanna's throat must be made of slate. It settles easily into my slight build and the lack of food in my stomach. _Oh, yeeaaah,_ I think, _that's an improvement._

"What the hell **happened**_?_" asks Johanna as I pass it back. It feels in that moment just like having an older sister. I grimace.

"I tried to have sex with Peeta and he said no." When she immediately hands the bottle back I laugh but take a third swig.

"He said **no**_?_" I consider this to be an appropriate reaction.

"Yep," I confirm.

"Wait, back up. I need more information."

I tell her the story from the beginning, putting the bottle down for now. Things are starting to seem too bright. My hands waver when I hold them out, like they're underwater. I feel calm all over. Johanna listens, wide eyes even wider in anticipation, because I don't leave out the juicy parts, although, inexplicably…maybe because I'm embarrassed…I laugh telling some of them.

"You never did that stuff before?" Johanna interrupts.

"No," I say, "We just slept…like really slept…together, and I guess we made out a couple of times. Until the past few months."

"Jesus," she snorts, "You're too old to only be figuring this out now."

"Whatever," I interject, giving her a _thanks a bunch_ face, and continue. I include my own mixed feelings about the state of things but let her use her own deductions to factor my personality into the mix. My flaws are not a secret, since I'm not capable of faking things, even on camera. I don't try to speculate on Peeta's feelings, since doing that makes me feel woozy and anxious. I try to explain my own state of mind, that final night, but I find it difficult. I remember the heat between us, so much heat, and feeling so in love after sitting down to create the passage for the book, and thinking about Peeta and all that he is. I felt so beautiful with his gaze on me, and so turned on by those gentle hands. I had convinced myself Peeta wouldn't hurt me again, that I needed to surrender some of my tight grasp on things, decide them as they came. I was curious. So many reasons intertwining together. I don't even know if it was the right decision or not. It was rash, like a lot of other things I do. It was made in the heat of the moment.

Johanna's tapping her nails on the half-empty bottle thoughtfully as she answers. I notice now that she's slurring the tiniest bit, and I wonder if I am.

"Maybe Peeta doesn't make his decisions in the heat of the moment," she says thoughtfully. I think about this.

"He did with all the other stuff!"

"Maybe he didn't, on his end. Maybe he'd already decided for then how far he'd go, and that was it."

"Whose side are you on?" I demand.

"Katniss, do you have any idea what men are like?" Johanna looks thoroughly amused asking me this. Her brown eyes are twinkling over to me and I'm confused, not getting the joke. "Men want to take what they can get and move on to the next opportunity. Whether it's women, money or power. Do you have **any** idea of how rare it is for a guy to say no to sex with a girl he's chased **all his life**_?_"

Ironically, because this advice comes out of someone's mouth who isn't Haymitch, someone I consider a personal confidant, I stop and consider it.

"Really?" I'm uncertain if this is true or false. Johanna's been hanging around the Capitol longer than I have, though, and she's familiar with its morays, the height of sophistication.

"Um. Yeah. Katniss, he didn't say he **wouldn't** have sex with you. He said he wasn't ready yet. Probably, **like every other boring goddamn thing he does**," …she enunciates this part clearly… "…it was out of some misguided attempt to protect you."

I haven't thought about this. I hadn't thought I'd needed protection. I take another sip from the bottle. It's really not bad at all now.

"How'd you react when he said no? Did you get really pissed off, totally shut down, grab your stuff and leave, and now your official plan is to totally ignore him and pretend it never happened?"

"Yeah," I say guiltily, and of course she laughs.

"We need to divide and conquer," she declares. "Let's brainstorm. Oh, by the way, according to your sordid details, you could rival me in technique." She says this with a wink and I blush.

She adds, "But you have to try to stop judging him so much. Not everyone in the entire world is out to hurt you." Her face softens when she says this. It's because she knows how easy it is for us to think so. I must look dubious, because she says, "Really, Katniss. I don't see that in him, and I see it in about everyone, too."

Johanna Mason and I begin to brainstorm. As we brainstorm, we drink. I remember getting the great idea to let Buttercup out of the bedroom to see what would happen and fur and dishes flying everywhere. I remember singing an old patriotic song really, really loudly as we hooked arms and swung around the living room. I remember lying on the lawn in front of the house, staring up at all the swirling colors, with Johanna next to me. I think she might have been holding my hand. I remember laughing harder than I ever remember laughing before, and then nothing. Then the world fades blissfully to black, and there are no dreams at all in waiting for me tonight.


	8. Something More

_***Hello, all! I wanted to thank everyone for all the positive feedback and kind reviews that you've given me over this story! Please do keep reviewing as I do think about your thoughts and ideas during the writing. The truth of the matter is, I'm going through something difficult in life right now…like lots of people…and writing this story has been a way to help me work through it, so I feel lucky it's turning out so well! I have plans to continue it indefinitely, so never fear. _

_P.S. For those of you that have commented on characterization, I have to tell you, honestly, that Johanna has been the most fun character to write. I'm glad you feel that they're working for you! I'd definitely want to be friends with her in real life. Cheers!_

I only wake up because I'm hit with something, full in the face. Luckily it's something soft, because boy do I have a headache. It's so easy to forget the aftereffects of this stuff in the moment, I remember. Afterwards, suddenly, it doesn't seem quite as appealing. My mouth tastes like I've been sucking on my foot all night. My eyes are blurry, and my stomach…

It hurts even to open my eyes. I've been sprawled on the living room floor on my back, my mouth open, passed out. Johanna's the one wielding the pillow. She looks a little like how I feel, but better. More practice holding her liquor, I guess. "Johanna, oy," I say by feeble way of complaint.

"You should be glad I didn't hit you with the bottle, you were totally out," she says, indicating the empty white liquor bottle tipped over on the sofa cushions. The fire is out and it takes me a minute to even get my bearings once I realize where I am. I'm woozy. I'm…and then I'm up, scrambling to the bathroom. I barely make it in time to the toilet before I'm retching, and boy, does that stuff taste worse coming up then it does going down. The acid taste gets into my sinuses and doesn't come out. I groan. I'm in there for at least twenty minutes. When I come out, I recognize that Johanna would be smirking if she didn't feel kind of off, too.

"What were you trying to do to me last night, brainless?" she finds the spark to ask. "Is that how they get down in district 12? Phew."

"I can't even remember what we actually did and what I just imagined," I mutter, trying to rinse the taste of vomit out of my mouth. My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. "Didn't you have to puke?"

"Beat you to it," she says, "But not as bad. I've been drinking longer than you have. You need to find your sea legs."

"No, I don't," I say adamantly, though I remember thinking this was a great idea in retrospect. The thing with alcohol, I'm realizing, is that it always seems like a great idea until you actually **drink **it, and then afterwards, it seems like a terrible idea. "Alright," I try to crawl back to some semblance of myself. It's not that late in the morning but it's late enough that I would've expected to see Peeta and Haymitch.

"Peeta?" I ask.

"Yeah, they tried. I told them you were…indisposed," she's grinning. Another thing to add to the long list of my bad behavior. Maybe Haymitch will remember the steak knife, I think hopefully.

"Okay," I say slowly. "We drank that entire bottle by ourselves last night so I could tell you the story of what happened with Peeta and I."

She catches on immediately. "Real."

"I let Buttercup out of the bedroom and Mutt chased him all over the house." I wince as I say this, because I'm glancing into the kitchen, where two things are apparent: Mutt has heard his name and is thumping his tail against the floor, and half my dishes are tipped over and broken all over the floor around the sink.

"Real."

"Jesus. Is he okay?"

"He might never come back, Katniss!"

"We were…dancing? Singing?"

"Real. And I think they heard us," she makes a conciliatory face that would be more convincing if she wasn't obviously trying to hold back giggles.

"You think or you know?"

"I know." This is getting better and better.

"There were really pretty colors in the sky and we were lying on the lawn watching them…"

"Half-real. I think we were actually outside…I think…but the colors were probably fictional projections. It was fun, though," she adds as an afterthought.

"We figured out how to fix this issue."

"Also half-true. We have ideas. You seemed a lot more pliable after you got about three-quarters of the way through that." She jerks a thumb at the bottle. "I think it might improve your personality, Katniss."

"Jesus, stop, my head hurts," I whine. She doesn't look sorry for me. I'm not surprised. It wasn't her idea. I did this to myself.

"Can you….remind me?"

"Well, I suggested to you that maybe Peeta had just figured out the point at which he was comfortable stopping for now, and that he never told you he **wouldn't **have sex with you, just that he wouldn't right this minute," At this point she pauses and gives me a conspiratorial look, "You're extremely impatient, you know. I suggested that maybe you're missing the point that he could also be trying to protect you, and that his choice indicates much more that he's a **good **guy…not a surprise…than a bad one. And I know the bad ones pretty well," she adds. I wonder if she'll ever get around to THAT backstory. "Then I asked you a question which seemed to shock you, which was this: what would you expect from him if it had been **you** who decided at the last minute that you couldn't do it?"

I do **not** remember this, but it must have the same effect, because I stop in my tracks. Now THAT is a perfect question. What would Peeta have done? Do I even need to think about these things anymore? Peeta would have been disappointed, maybe, but he would have agreed immediately…and probably pulled me into his arms and comforted me, besides, to let me know it was alright.

"**Am I always going to be the shitty person in this equation?" **I yell. I'm so frustrated I could scream. My own yelling makes my head hurt more. I pick up the pillow and throw it at the wall. When this is not satisfactory, I pick up the bottle and throw that, too. It shatters against the wall and Johanna ducks, even though she's behind me. My house is already covered in shards.

"Okay, Girl on Fire, chill out," she says, amused. "You're not a shitty person. Stubborn, sure, and bossy, and moody, and bratty, and forceful, immature, demanding…"

"That's not helping!"

She raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, **I'm** hanging out with you, and you know what they say about the company you keep."

I'm trying to think straight, but it's so hard with this headache.

"Drink water," she advises, so I cross to the kitchen, careful to avoid the shards, and guzzle some more. It's cold and feels good. I dump some in a bowl and put it by Mutt, who licks my hand. I remember him circling us, barking, excited as we danced. Whatever last night was, it was really fun until this morning.

"Alright. Okay. I'll try to remember. What now?"

"You talk to him."

"That's **it**? I thought you'd have an answer!"

"That **is **an answer, Katniss. That's how **relationships**…" she says the word "relationships" like most people say the word "maggots"… "work, or so I hear from the people that practice that sort of thing. That's why I don't have them. Oh, and while you're doing it, try not to physically injure him, threaten him, or storm off in a huff. Or stab a knife through his clothing." I have no idea how she knows about that little part of last night, except that she's exceptionally perceptive.

"If you don't believe in relationships, why are you giving me advice about one?"

She grins. "Because I'm not sentimental about them, which means I just calls 'em like I sees 'em. Plus, you just admitted you're in a relationship." Smug.

I'm glowering.

"Last thing: do it soon. Stop pouting."

"I'm not pouting!"

"What did you expect me to sugarcoat it for you? Not my style. Thought that's why you asked me. Or not?"

"Yeah," I admit. I know this about her. She shares the trait of tactlessness with me. "Can I wait until this subsides before I do that? How long will it take?"

"'Bout two days," she says, "With your weight and how little you ate last night. Dummy." She says this last bit kindly but all I caught was the first half. "Two DAYS?"

"Well, to be completely functional, anyways. Do you have plans for today, or are we just winging it?"

"I can't remember what day it is," I say, trying to focus on one thing so that the double-vision goes away. I wonder if I ever will get Prim's cat back home. I feel a little remorse. She'd be uncharacteristically furious with me about now. It hurts just to think about her, though, so I stop. At least there were no nightmares. Maybe that's why Haymitch is so hooked. I could see how someone could get used to that. Before I can answer her, I hear the front door open again. My hair has come loose from its braid and I haven't even showered yet. For all I know, neither has Johanna. I sniff myself surreptitiously. I smell gamey. I sigh.

Peeta walks right in and examines us briefly sitting on the floor. His eyes shift between my bloodshot eyes, which I can't bring to meet his yet, the bottle shattered against the wall, the dishes all over the kitchen, the dog, who jumped up and it jonesing to be pet, and back to us.

"So…" he says, seemingly at a loss for words, for once. Then he unexpectedly crosses to the kitchen and begins to pick up the shards of the plates and glasses. I blink. Knowing Peeta how I do, I get the impression something is going on in his head that I'm not reading right. Pity? Understanding? I remember his anger the last time I got trashed. I'm glad he's not angry, but this is even more disquieting. Johanna gives me a _told you so_ look, and she goes to join him. Even though the broken dishes are my fault, I'm feeling like I need to get into a shower right this minute. Not just because I feel disgusting, but because my body is threatening to revolt again.

"Just leave them," I mumble, attempting to brush the broken glass into a pile with my bare foot.

"Don't, you'll cut yourself," says Peeta quietly.

"I'm taking a shower, just leave it, I'll do it later." I head upstairs without another word. I hear Johanna talking quietly. I trust her to leave the important things that were said between us out, though. At the same time, it might be easier if she mediates a little.

The shower only makes me feel moderately better. I have to throw up again, of course, and I clutch my stomach as I watch it swirl down the drain. I wash myself slowly, since the world is still moving around a bit. When I towel off and dress in clean clothes that don't stink of sweat and smoke I feel better yet. Maybe I could eat something very…very…small. I edge down the stairs. I'm not eavesdropping, but just because of the way the house is set up, I hear, just before I clear the corner, in Johanna's voice, "**I **know that, Peeta. **You **know that. But Katniss lacks two things she needs to get it intuitively: moderation and experience." When I round the corner she immediately clams up.

"It's Saturday," she reminds me by way of greeting. "Peeta's offered to give me a lesson for a little while." I'm still slow catching up to figure out she means painting. "That way, you can lie down until you feel better." She hands me a cheese bun and I turn it over in my hands but don't eat it. I don't ask where Haymitch is. I tear off a hunk and throw it to Mutt, who catches it gratefully out of the air and munches. Technically I don't have to hunt this morning. We have enough food in the house. Johanna will be here tomorrow, too, so we could do it then. Lying down sounds so good right about now. I nod in acquiescence and look up from the bread. For the first time, I catch Peeta's eyes, but I can't read them. They're unreadable. I remember fleetingly what Johanna said: _Talk to him._ But I can't bring myself to do it yet. I still feel embarrassed under everything. I'm afraid that if he touches me again I'll move into the comfort without thinking. I remember the day I thought long and hard out in the woods about Haymitch's warnings, not that long ago, and decided that I did want Peeta. And I do. But I feel queasy, not just because of the booze, but from thinking about having a relationship, all the talking, all the compromise. I'm bad at compromise. I'm bad at talking, too. _Is it always going to be this back-and-forth? Will I ever feel really secure? Have I ever? _

"If you don't mind," I say to no one in particular. They shake their heads.

"Go on upstairs, Katniss," Peeta says, without looking at me again. "Go rest." He's being amazingly good-natured about my out of control drinking binge. Maybe he figures I've already gotten my comeuppance. But before I go, there's something I need to do.

"Oh, I forgot, there was something I wanted to show Johanna," I say, and tug her into the other room. This is a transparent ploy, but I'm so hungover I don't care. Once she's out of earshot I whisper urgently, "Don't tell him everything!"

"Like what? I'm not going to tell him anything except that you're bothered and that I gave you some advice, and I'll tell him what advice I gave. I won't tell him all the sordid details about your twisted inner workings. Fair? It's not like he doesn't **know **you're bothered by all of it. So's he."

"Are you going to give him advice too?" I ask suspiciously.

"Yeah, the same advice I gave you, if he asks. And I'll let him talk, if he wants. Maybe I'll give him sex tips." She smirks, looking self-satisfied.

"He doesn't need them," I say without thinking. She snorts back a laugh. "Just…be discrete, Johanna, okay? I don't have anyone to talk to about this stuff." I hear the note of vulnerability in my own voice and hate it. But she nods, like she understands. I head back upstairs, the sounds of their banter fading below me. I want to spend as much time with Johanna as I can while she's here, but she's Peeta's friend too, and my bed calls to me. I climb in it, kicking off my pants until I'm just in a t-shirt and my underwear, and snuggle down into the pillows and blankets. I listen to myself breathe. That's the last I remember until…

_We have to go back! We can't just leave them! They'll die!_

_Katniss, it's a death wish…they're staying behind to let us get out. It's triage. Go, go! _

_But…_

_I'm turning back, and all I can see is the last contortions of his face, calling to me to go, saying he'll catch up. Those sea-green eyes, wild with adrenaline, sweaty copper hair falling over them. His back turns, and I'm staring into the abyss, and I see the monsters coming, the muscles in his biceps ripple as he raises his trident. Then the world explodes. _

"**FINNICK!" **When I wake, I'm already screaming. "FINNICK! Come on! We've got you! Come on!" I'm disoriented and my voice is hoarse. The last fragments of my dream haven't left me yet. I don't recognize where I am. Where's Finnick? Where are the others? Are they alright? My shirt is plastered to me with sweat. _Gone. They're all gone. _No one left but me in this silent, this too silent room. I roll off the side of the bed just in time to throw up on the floor again. By now, it's nothing but bile. I'm glad Peeta doesn't come in, because I'm so shaken, I feel like panic incarnate. My eyes reflected in the mirror on the dresser are enormous. It seemed so real. It seemed…and my face is wet, though I don't remember crying. I seem to be doing a lot of this lately.

Then the door eases open, and on soundless paws, a giant yellow dog with a serious face, now, pads in to meet me. As I slump to the floor next to the traces of my own bile, he comes up to me and delicately begins to lick the salt from my face. I wrap my arms around his shaggy neck and hold on tight. And to his everlasting credit, Mutt sits beside me, and lets me cry as long as I want into the ruff at his neck, until I feel as dry as dust inside. And then I just sit, limp and numb. I don't know for how long. The sun passes over midday and begins moving west. I haven't eaten, but it must be late afternoon before I hear footsteps on the stairs. I pull my pants on from where I am.

I don't even have the wherewithal to guess who's coming up, but it's Johanna's paint-smeared cheek that makes its way around the doorframe. When she sees the state I'm in, her face looks pained for a minute, and at first, I take it for annoyance, but when she crosses to me, her dog wags his tail as she sits beside me. She doesn't look at me; just straight ahead.

"Sometimes in the middle of the night I'll get tangled in my blankets from tossing and turning, and it will feel just like the restraints they put on me, on the tables." Her voice is flat, unfeeling. I listen. "I used to think every day, _well, at least when they kill me, no one will care._ Since I don't have a family." I open my mouth to say something, but she waves it away, and I shut it again.

"When you first come in, they're nice to you….feed you decent food, talk about how it's just traditional prisoner-of-war handling, you know. Part of the whole deal. Sometimes they gave me cigarettes. You saw how Peeta first was on camera." I nod. "Then, in the middle of the night, these guys began to come. Guys with masks, like gas masks? Scary. And you'd hear them talking about what they were going to do to you, and it sounded like they were **looking forward to it,** Katniss."

I wince. "Was it as bad as I worried it was, all day long in 13?" I ask, not sure if I want the answer.

"Worse," she says. "They'd make me stand on a box with electrodes attached to me. They'd bag my head and leave me there as they interrogated me for hours. By then they weren't feeding us, either, so you'd get tired really quickly. When you got too tired, you'd fall like you were falling off, but then it would pull on the wires and they'd zap you. Over and over. It's like being burned, but worse. It was all worse for the girls because….you know." Her tone is still completely flat, like we're discussing district politics. "They did these, too." She lifts up her left sleeve and I see what look like brands or strike marks. Deep keloid scars have formed. They march in neat lines down her arm. Tens of them. "And they'd use a board, like a washboard. Hold one end over your chin. And pour water down it. They'd hold your nose as they asked you questions. It was supposed to simulate drowning. People made up all kinds of bullshit to make them stop. We were so afraid that they'd just keep going. It gave me panic attacks every single time I saw it come out, for anyone, not just me. They said it was a very old method of torture."

She continues. "Sometimes I thought it was easier for Peeta, and I was jealous, because he had you, at least. He'd say your name in his sleep, when he was crying. I didn't have anybody but me. It would have been kinder for them to kill us outright."

This shocks me, because they did, after all, make it out.

"Whenever I see anyone who has the same tone of voice one of them did, or the same height and build, my heart goes out of control until they're gone. They have me on six pills a day now to manage all of the aftershocks of it."

"I couldn't do that," I say without thinking.

"Oh yes, you could. If you'd seen the things I have. I tried to go without them, and then one day I woke up covered in blood. The dog was curled up in the corner, shaking. It wasn't his blood, though. It was mine. I cut an artery in my arm. Myself. My shrink…" she makes a disdainful face…. "said that I was, quote, 'trying to recreate the trauma.' But **I don't remember any of it**. After that, they were afraid…me too…that I'd kill myself either intentionally or accidentally. So I took the pills. Maybe one day I won't need them. I keep hoping."

I look at her for the first time. "No one gets off free, I guess."

"No one. That was as much a part of their Games as the bloodbath. They know what they did."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

She contemplates briefly. "I don't know. To say it. To have it on record with someone besides me and my stupid doctors. To remember, as painful as it is. If we forget, and human beings over the course of things are great at forgetting, it happens again." Her face is bitter now, hard as stone, prematurely lined. "Every day I hold my breath, Katniss. I couldn't live through it again. As soon as I saw it coming, I'd be gone." I hate hearing her talk like this, but it helps me to realize that even strong, savvy, tough Johanna, who seems so much easier and funnier, is struggling, like Peeta and I. Like Haymitch.

I take her hand and squeeze. "Thank you for telling me." Another thought occurs to me. I have to show her the book. "I have something to show you later tonight."

"Peeta wanted to come up, but I said I'd ask first. Is that okay?" But now, all my walls are down, all my tears are cried, all my vim has dissipated. I don't have the care or the energy to deny him.

"If he wants," I say, hollowly.

She leaves and a soft knock comes. Peeta. He's holding something out to me, a sandwich, bread and cheese. His eyes are quiet, guarded. Suddenly, I want nothing more in the world than for him to tell me it **will **get better, for Johanna, for all of us. The sex seems like such a small thing in comparison to the love. When I lift my head and he sees the exhaustion lingering there, the way the dog has stayed, even without Johanna, curled protectively close to me, when I lift my arms to him imploringly, he crosses to me, wraps his around me, and picks me up. He puts me down on the bed without taking them off me and pulls me in close. I can hear that steady, dependable beating of his heart. I'd cry if I had anything left to cry. He rocks me and murmurs to my hair. I whisper into his chest.

"I made you a promise and then the first chance I had to prove it, I screwed it up," I say dejectedly. "I never think of anyone but myself. Even Johanna said that."

"She didn't say that," he says. Not technically. But she meant it.

"You would never have done that to me, if our situation was reversed."

"I'm flattered, Katniss, it's okay. I know how much trust it must have taken you to get to that point with me, and how hard that is for you. You must have felt like I was taking it for granted. But I'm not, I swear I'm not," he says adamantly. "I wanted nothing in the world more than to make love with you that night. I swear on my family's graves."

"I know," I say, and suddenly, I do.

"And I'm still going to," he whispers into my ear, his breath tickling me so that goosebumps shoot up and down my arms. "If you still want me. Just not yet."

Despite everything, despite what Johanna told me and my heartbreak and loss and the dreams and the fears, my body has its own designs, and when I shiver, it's with the thought of what he says will happen running through it, down through the center of me and out my toes.

"Why did you say no?" I have to ask.

He thinks about it carefully. I have the feeling I'm not the first one to have asked this rather obvious question. "Because…" he starts.

"Because I need to be sure that it's safe. Not just safe physically, but that we're safe, inside our heads. It hasn't been that long and I didn't know if I felt equipped to make such a big decision. Or, honestly, if you were. It happened so fast, and I never expected it." This comforts me, to know that he is as surprised as me about what grew between us since that night he found me on the steps in the cold. "I felt as though I'd be doing it some disservice, to do something so sacred…"…he blushes… "when we're still just learning to seek out comfort. To manage our daily lives. To…to love." When he says "we," I can't help but hearing "me" and thinking maybe he's being a bit generous.

"I've never felt this way about anyone. No one. Not sexually, not romantically, not fraternally. I know it'll be special no matter what, but I'm so content just getting to know you in other ways, Katniss, I can live without it for awhile, let us get a little stronger on our own and…and together. I got afraid, I guess. But you're so beautiful." He smiles, and it's that smile I know, the one that lights up my world. "So beautiful. Like an angel, reaching up for me. I felt so unbelievably lucky to have you; I'm so sorry if I hurt you in some way. Does that make sense?" His voice has a note of pleading, like what he's said might be incomprehensible to me.

"Yes." It does. Nothing he's said is wrong. It's sensible, logical. But that night I was running on pure emotion and passion and even erasure, I have to admit. There was no room for logic. "I'm sorry, too. I don't…I don't…want to let you down," I say haltingly. There's that note of tears in my voice again.

"I'm proud of you," he says, and his lips stray, so gently, to my forehead, testing. To my nose. And then to my mouth, sweetly. I don't resist; I lean in, breathe him in. I realize that even a day or two without this boy is a loss. I can't take time for granted anymore; there's no guarantee that we'll have enough of it. "You should be proud of you, too. Do you know what Johanna said to me?"

I shake my head.

"She said, 'I know you two will make it through together.' She believes. So does Haymitch. We have people rooting for us." He's smiling. "But…let's just take it a little slow, okay?"

"Can we still do the…the other stuff?" I ask. I'm blushing, I can feel the heat in my cheeks. I don't want him to say no. It's been comforting, to have such good feelings inside and out. Luxurious, almost.

He's trying not to laugh because he thinks it will offend me, which it wouldn't, because I recognize the irony. "If you want to, I would love that," he whispers into my ear again, then kisses my earlobe, and I shiver. "There's a lot of other things we can do that we haven't done, you know."

I look suspicious. "How do you know this stuff?"

He gives an uncharacteristically wicked grin. "Johanna?" He says this like it might be up to me to decide if he's kidding or not. Knowing Johanna, I'd bet on not. She probably offered it up, though, I can't imagine Peeta asking her that question.

"She said I'm going to have to learn to communicate better."

"Yeah, but that's a skill that'll help anywhere, not just with us."

"I don't know how I feel about romantic relationships still, honestly, Peeta."

"I know. No pressure, okay?" He brushes my hair back behind my ear. "I thought with you and Johanna co-conspiring I was a goner for sure."

"I think we're kind of growing up." I don't realize this is actually true until I say it out loud. "I think all this has made us grow up in certain areas, but lag in others. Maybe this is one we're just catching up in. She's like an older sister I never had." I sound wistful. I wish she was closer, but there's no way to make that happen. Even if we wanted to move…which neither of us does…the government won't let people relocate to new districts until they can get a handle on who is alive, dead, hiding out, etc. They don't even have a comprehensive list of the citizenry yet, last I heard. I keep hoping my mother will come back, but I think it might just be too painful. She spent many years and many tragedies here.

"So that explains the newfound interest in drinking?"

"Trust me, drinking pays for itself," I say adamantly. "I have no interest in drinking again for a very long time."

"I heard you guys singing," he says slyly, "It sounded like there were ten of you instead of two. Boy, was it raucous. Luckily we don't sleep anyways or you'd have kept us up all night." I laugh.

"How're you and Johanna getting on?" I ask.

"I think we share something different," he says. "We're bonded through a different kind of pain. But it makes it easier to remember, hearing her voice." He cringes a little. "At least this time it sounds sane and stable and okay. Not like other times. But it's really good to see her…to see **anyone**. It does get lonely out here."

"I'll keep you company," I offer. He hugs me tight. "You already do."

"I love you," I whisper. He kisses my temple, where the soft little hairs will never be tucked back no matter how often I try. He kisses down my jawline and along my neck, trailing hot little openmouthed nips to my shoulder as he tugs the fabric gently aside. I feel him get turned on and press into it. He murmurs to me, "See? Nothing's changed, Katniss. It'll be better if we wait a little while. You know you like the slow build." This is true. Sometimes I stop us on purpose just to tingle all day long in anticipation. I want more from him, I'm so glad we're okay, but now is not the time. We have a guest waiting. But when we descend the stairs together, my little hand subsumed by his big one, the dog in tow, it's to approving looks from the peanut gallery, particularly at me. I'd rather everyone just left the topic alone, though. I have to remember to thank Johanna for the advice. Haymitch is there, and of course, his presence is usually incompatible with my wishes at any given moment.

"Ahhh, young love. Get over our little tiff, did we?" he snarks.

"Subtlety, Haymitch. You should learn it."

"Coming from you? I think I'll take my lessons elsewhere, since your idea of subtlety is only to stab someone's clothing and not their body parts. Oh, and Katniss?" he drawls, "Why don't you save the booze for the people who can handle it."

"Once I identify them, maybe I will," I snark back, my feathers ruffled.

But he leaves it there. I think he's just glad that he doesn't have to worry about more drama coming from teenagers he's sort of been coerced into adopting. I know that deep down at the bottom of his shriveled heart, he cares a lot about us now, even if we grate on each other. Johanna preoccupies herself with tackling her dog. She roughhouses with him on the floor for a few minutes, laughing. I wonder if he keeps hoping Buttercup will come back.

As Haymitch and Johanna begin discussing food, I turn to Peeta and hiss, lightning-quick, "And **don't** tell Haymitch about our sex life!"

"I didn't tell him the details, Katniss, sheesh, give me some kind of credit."

I think by now I could probably even stomach some food. Maybe my stomach wasn't just doing flips over the alcohol. Maybe it was something more. I realize that I want…no, more…need to find out. I finally understand the comment I overheard this morning. Moderation and experience. There's only one way to get to them, and of course, it's the one I'm horrible at: patience. I'm still playing catch-up with my self-awareness. But as we settle in to the warm, brightly lit kitchen, the four of us, survivors together, gritting our teeth and bearing down and just refusing to let our past define us, I know I'm in very good company, indeed. I ruffle Peeta's hair gently, and he smiles. Just for now, I decide not to worry about it too much. After all, how much have I made it through already?


	9. Keeping the Light

Katniss is panting in my ear. When we're not arguing, she can't possibly get enough; her hormones have finally begun to run wild after so long of being teased for being a prude. She's like a kid in a candy store. I back her against the wall, pin her hands over her head, which makes her groan. As one hand holds them firm, I spread her thighs to allow me better access, I reach the other down, down…rubbing against the rough fabric of her pants, but not underneath. She's straining against my fingers as my mouth lowers to her neck and I bite, hard. I'm beginning to learn her buttons, where to press and what to do to get the elaborate reactions I want. I get immense amounts of personal pleasure and satisfaction as I watch all her walls come crashing down during our sex. Drowning in sensations, she can't pretend to be apathetic, can't manage abrasiveness, never turns me away. It's the one time she lets herself go. I feel privileged to witness it.

But first, I have to back up a little while.

The night we resolve our differences, the night I find Katniss spent on the floor of her room with the dog, reaching up to me with beseeching hands because she doesn't know what else to do anymore, the day I discover the shards on the floor, the day all the hurt runs out of me as I realize I'm witnessing her desperate attempt to escape her pain, since I would not let her derive relief from me, we show Johanna our scrapbook. She's uncharacteristically quiet turning the pages. When she reaches her own page, her description, written by Katniss, surrounds a heart-shaped face with spiky hair and wide-set, fiery brown eyes. Eyes that dare you. Katniss has written this: _Johanna Mason, District 7. Tribute, Victor, captive, fighter, survivor. Johanna is fierce, strong, smart, sarcastic, determined and tenacious. Her will to survive in the face of almost impossible odds has carried her through much pain, torture and violence to herself and those she cares about. Johanna is not to be trifled with, handy with an axe, yet once her respect is earned, she is fiercely loyal. Johanna survived the war and lives in her own housing in district 7 with a big yellow dog. She is an inspiration and a friend._ Rarely, again, I see tears sparkling in those big eyes. "You should add his name," she whispers.

"What?" I ask.

"Mutt," she whispers, her eyes still sparkling. It's then I realize just how much therapy the dog has provided for her. I've been surprised by Katniss' reaction to him, too. The only animals I've ever seen her positively interact with have been Mockingjays, as she has no use for cats except as mousers, and kills anything she thinks she can eat. But with the dog, she's been different, gaining comfort and stability when I wasn't there. _Maybe I should get her one_, I think.

"Okay," says Katniss to her request.

"You draw so well, Peeta," Johanna whispers. "Thanks for including me."

"We could never forget you," Katniss says adamantly, and then she, too, surprises me, and in a gesture of tenderness so fierce and motherly that I haven't seen it since Prim, since Rue, she moves to Johanna and wraps her in a strong hug. "We're your family, okay?" she murmurs in Johanna's ear. "You have a family. You have a family." Johanna hangs on to her. I blink back the salt in my own eyes, too, but Katniss' are clear. She garners her strength, her sense of purpose, from those that need her, ever since her father died. I know that part of the reason she struggles so now is that she isn't well enough to care for others. She was never good at the medical end of it like her mother and Prim, but she was still wonderful, I remember wistfully, thinking of the cave, thinking of little Rue, thinking of the way Prim would sit with her by the fire, her head resting on Katniss' knees as she brushed Prim's hair. "Little duck," she called her.

Johanna flips the rest of the pages in silence. She bites her lip when she sees Finnick. She can't linger on him for too long. I notice she passes Mags quickly too. But she agrees that it was a good idea, this book of ours. Katniss told me that Johanna is adamant about not forgetting, however many pills they feed her. "Those who don't learn from their mistakes fucking repeat them," is how she put it in one of her letters. When she reaches the end, she closes it reverently and hands it back.

"Is there anyone you'd like us to add?" I ask gently. She swallows hard.

"Yes," she says, "But I don't think I can do it yet."

"When you're ready," I tell her, "You let us know. We have plenty of room." This is true. The book is enormous. Even with the first half devoted to plants and the second devoted to the memories, there are still tens of pages empty. We must have added at least thirty people to the memories part already. I insisted on including the Tributes we knew personally from the Games, even the ones that weren't kind to us. "They were people, too," I tell Katniss, when she objected. "They were nothing but pawns of the Capitol like us. They could have lived normal lives if they hadn't been forced into that arena with us. They died horrible deaths for a television show. The least we can do is honor them."

"Always so honorable and kind," she tells me, but she doesn't say it like it's a bad thing. We balance each other out; my cool to her flames. So in the book are Prim, Rue, my family, Finnick, Boggs, Cinna, Portia, my prep team, Madge, and so on, but also Thresh, Foxface, Glimmer, even Clove and Cato. The only ones that Katniss will not allow are President Coin, Snow, and Marvel. She cannot look at the faces of those who killed her sister and her Rue, and let me know in no uncertain terms that she would not be opening the book if they were going to stare back at her. So we compromised. If she's ever ready, we can add them. But even Cato, when I think of his suffering at the end, deserved more of a life than that. I wouldn't wish what he went through on someone for anything. I knew that he had to die for us to live, but the memory of that long, cold night filled with his agonized whimpers still shows up in my dreams, and I left a piece of myself behind in the Cornucopia forever, listening. I am not a killer, not a hunter. It is not in me. Even when I returned to kill the girl the Careers left for dead in the first Games, it was an act of mercy—she would not have lived after the first round with them. Her eyes asked for death, and I delivered it swiftly and I hope, painlessly. But I never wanted to, and I wonder sometimes if there is a hell, if we will be there for the murder of other innocent human beings. Katniss doesn't seem to struggle with this particular part of it; there was always a grim, life-or-death set to her will.

We eat together that night, and Haymitch returns, wearing, of all things, a bow tie. He and Katniss are more civil to each other now, probably because of Johanna. They want, like I want, the four of us to be together, to be happy together for that fleeting time. I feel guilty that Katniss and I were fighting while she was here…she deserves better. I make a promise to myself not to turn down sex from Katniss again the night before a visitor comes to stay. Heh. Johanna will only be with us part of tomorrow, before the evening train comes to collect her away. I'm saddened by the thought of her leaving again, but not as much as Katniss, whose eyes betray her sense of loss even as she chatters on about hunting and how they'll go out in the morning and bring in the motherlode.

I wish I could be a hunting partner for her the way Gale was, but everyone knows I'm about as useful in the woods as Johanna's dog would be. It's a private world to Katniss that she only invites few into. I know that she misses Gale, despite all that's happened…they have a history together, and he'd helped save her family as much, or more than, he was implicated in her sister's death. I know Gale would never have willingly chosen that end for Prim, whom he loved, but I never shared his views about war. Gale is ruthless, and I don't have it in me. Katniss talked about visiting him once or twice, but she's still not ready. I feel possessive when I think about that, even though I know I don't have anything to worry about. Not anymore. I'm torn over whether I'd want to go with her if she asked, or whether that would just make things more awkward for her. I don't want to fall prey to some kind of ridiculous masculine posturing.

I make a cake for us, since it's our last night together. Johanna's birthday might pass before we see her again; the transportation is still far too unstable to guarantee any kind of scheduling. She'll be 24 in the spring. I ice it with a scene of trees that afternoon while Johanna is working on a painting of her dog. It didn't come out too bad, actually, although Johanna's more interpretive than realistic. She gets paint everywhere, like a little kid, which I find funny. The trees are pines, a tribute to 7, but also to Katniss' woods. On the bottom, I frost a crossed hatchet and bow. They both smile when I bring it out, chocolate with white frosting. Katniss must still be hungry from her binge drinking and subsequent upchucking, because she and Johanna tear into it until we've annihilated most of it and all of us are stuffed, our bellies distended. It's a new feeling, after living in 12 for so long. Katniss and I were luckier than most; most of the time we weren't starving like so many others, but we never ate like this, never were able to. After dinner, the four of us gather around the TV for the news. No longer are the broadcasts Capitol propaganda or footage of the old Games…they've dispensed with that, thank goodness. Now, the updates frequently show the rebuilding of the districts and broadcast lists of known survivors. Sometimes there are pleas for aid in different parts of the country, such as bringing in more trained healers, of which there are a shortage. Many of those whose homes were completely destroyed, and who have been accounted for as survivors, officially, were invited to fill the empty Capitol homes, though few accepted the offer. Most of us still associate the Capitol with the negative, don't even want to visit it.

Paylor is speaking about the shortages that we can expect for awhile still, and they cover a depressing number of districts, which is to be expected, but given how little we had before, it affects us much less than the citizens who lived in the Capitol. We're used to getting by with little. She reads a list of new national laws. They include the rights of districts to democratically elect Peacekeepers and interim mayors, the right of every citizen to be assigned a dwelling that is functional enough to provide heat and has easy access to clean water—fireplaces count, I guess—the right of citizens to marry and engage in romantic relationships freely and without coercion (I think back to the now well-known and often enforced prostitution that ran rampant in Snow's reign), freedom of speech and expression (this one is so foreign that it might take us the rest of our lives to accept it), and the rights of citizens to travel throughout the country, pending safer travel between districts and the Capitol. She lists the members of the leadership team that's now beginning to reform the governmental offices…some names I don't know, but obviously herself, Plutarch—I bet he's puffed up like a baboon over that—Beetee, and, surprisingly, Gale. For someone so young he's been given a lot of power. She doesn't state that he's part of the offices of warfare and weapons development, an unwanted but perhaps necessary bureau—I have my own opinions about that—but we all know it. When she says his name, I watch Katniss' face, but she's keeping it carefully impassive, aware of the three sets of eyes that are on her. She doesn't talk about him much, not even to Johanna and I. Paylor further states that the Mockingjay, at this time, is experiencing a period of readjustment in her home district and aiding in rebuilding there, but that she has been welcomed into the fledgling government at such a point in time as she is ready and willing. She leaves the rest of us out. Good.

It occurs to me that sooner or later, Katniss' fame might catch up to her. There must be immense curiosity over her low profile, since she was, of course, not that long ago the face of the rebellion, known and seen everywhere. It wouldn't surprise me if eventually they send a team out to get some footage, just to assure that we're alive and at least able to feign wellness. She has a lot of well-wishers and gratitude, even though she's been avoiding the spotlight like the plague, and trying as hard as she can just to get things back to something resembling normal. I wonder if she realizes that sooner or later, this is a likely possibility. Certainly her mental state was unstable even for much of the time we were fighting and being filmed, so that's never stopped them, unless she was totally incapacitated.

We watch for awhile, and then Haymitch says gruffly, "Shut that off." He can only handle so much of the Capitol's broadcasts. Capitol broadcasts, to some degree, will always be Capitol broadcasts to him, whether they're mandatory or not, whoever's giving them. I think he might always hold his breath and assume for sanity's sake that sooner or later, the tide will turn back. Haymitch is prepared for everything. We turn it off, even though the rest of us are still curious, since we haven't watched in it awhile. Johanna scoots over to play chess with me in front of the fire, Haymitch drinks—handling it much better than Katniss, but he's had about twenty years more practice—and Katniss curls up like a cat on the floor, her head on Johanna's dog, his muzzle between his front paws. The firelight flickers off her gleaming hair, and I find myself looking forward to holding her again tonight, inhaling that sweet scented hair.

Johanna beats me handily in chess. _She's full of surprises_, I think, amused. She produces a pack of cards from somewhere and we play Go Fish. She beats me in that, too. I'd be feeling emasculated by now if I didn't already know that in terms of attitude and toughness, I'm totally drowned in the presence of these two women. It doesn't bother me. I grew up with my mother, who was definitely also the one in charge, and ruled with an iron hand over four grown men. The Mellark men are not the posturing type. Lord knows I have to ask Katniss six times every time I want to touch her anywhere, something I'm just starting to get over lately because she's gotten annoyed at having to give consent over and over. I get the impression from my interactions with other guys before the Games that this kind of patience and care is kind of a rarity among young men.

When we finish the cards, having offered them to Haymitch and Katniss, who both decline, we simply sit together, drinking tea and for Haymitch, booze, until it gets late. Katniss asks Johanna if she's okay taking her room, which has been cleaned up, but Johanna simply grabs a blanket off the couch and settles in there.

"I'll be fine with the dog. The fire will keep me calmer anyways," she says. "Sometimes it helps with the nightmares." It's odd that she shares this trait with us, even though our ways of coping are all so different. But I stack it with wood again for her before Katniss and Haymitch and I shrug into our coats. Mutt has joined Johanna on the couch, at her feet. Luckily she's little because he's not. Katniss refills Johanna's tea when I'm not looking and sets it by her head. Johanna smiles and my eyes go soft looking at her. "If you need us, come over, okay?" she asks. Johanna nods.

"I'll come find you to hunt tomorrow morning," Katniss tells her. Johanna's big eyes turn to the flickering flames, and she does indeed look exhausted in the moment. I hope that she can get some sleep. I remember that she hasn't slept in awhile, since she and Katniss had a party last night. I turn off the kitchen light and close the door quietly behind me. Haymitch peels off towards his house, stumbling by now. _Well, _I think, _at least he was __**mostly **__sober for Johanna's visit._ As though she didn't know he was a drunk.

I take Katniss' hand and we move quietly over to my house. It's dark. I haven't spent that much time there in the past few days, camping out mostly with Haymitch, despite the smell. I can't bear bouncing around in there alone after having gotten used to the sounds of Katniss and Buttercup moving around. It's too quiet and the silence presses in on me until it feels too loud. Katniss is quiet heading over, and I know that she, too, must be tired after the past few days. I remember the look on her face when I brought her food earlier on…a look of pure hopelessness, like a trapped animal, void of willpower, like a child. It actually frightened me out of being upset with her. Until that moment, I was for the most part thinking about my own frustration at always trying so hard to do the right thing, trying to take care of her even as she balked and put up roadblocks at every turn, rebuffing all my efforts. The word _selfish_ had come to mind. All I could think about was how, if our positions had been reversed, if she'd said no, I'd have been a monster to do anything besides acquiesce, hell, and comfort her besides.** I** respect **her **comfort level, and I know in my heart that if either of us doesn't feel ready to go further, it's wrong to do so. I was even ready to give up for awhile, let her just work out her own problems until she could work with me like an adult. This would take a lot, because I know she's still suffering, like me, and it's affecting her judgment, her personality, everything.

Yet when I came up, just as a friend, to check on her and try to get her to eat, that suffering was etched into every line of her face. She was clinging to the dog for dear life, the bedcovers were tangled in a pile on the floor, her eyes were scarlet and I spotted the remnants of her sickness beside her. I don't know what factors came together to cause that kind of suffering in her, but it made me afraid for her. It made me tired, too. The Capitol has caused no end of damage great and small to so many people. Every day is a battle just to be a normal person. I wonder if Johanna had confided parts of her own story, like I suspect she might have. When Katniss put her panicked arms around me, hanging on like a drowning person, I could sense the pain and fear radiating out from her. Haymitch had suggested to me that Katniss, having opened up so much to me, having trusted me deeply enough to take that last step—I didn't tell him the specifics, but he's savvy enough to fill in blanks—was actually humiliated rather than pissed off. This, at least, I could understand. But she can't possibly plumb the depths of my brain when it comes to this.

_Katniss Everdeen wanted to make love to me_. This mythology is something else entirely that I've been struggling to deal with. How can my mind even cope with that? I was so afraid that it was too fast, still. But her waiting heat lurked just below me, those heavy-lidded eyes and that half smile, silky hair spread in a corona around her head. Katniss wanting me to be her first. I never in my wildest dreams would imagine that this would come to pass, and with all my wanting, I had never planned for what I might actually **do**, should she want that. It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do—and I've been through two Games, a war, and being tortured—to turn her back when we were so close to experiencing what I've wanted my entire life. I could never explain the depth of that want, that need, to her. But I had to trust that if it was meant to be, this wouldn't be the last time it came to that. If she's really ready, she'll be ready again, and if not, she needs the time to consider. I think we both need time to consider. The action, though one people take every day, of having sex for the first time is not one that can be taken back. I want to live up to it for her. But I shiver thinking about the opportunities that unfold in her apology, in her returning to me. That's the thing about Katniss…whenever she wanders off, gets angry, gets frustrated, breaks down, changes her mind…she always comes back to me. And I've always come back to her, from the brink of death, from the depths of torture. This is not romantic fantasy; it's just how it is. Bonded through pain.

I let us in and she's already heading for the stairs by the time I stop to get a glass of water. When I join her in my room, she's sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for me. Her eyes are vulnerable, all her guard down for now. They seem bottomless. I cross and take her face in my palms and she closes her eyes.

"We're going to get through it," I say to her, insistently. "We've come too far. We're too strong. We're going to get through it, even if you can't see it yet. As a family, just like you told Johanna." She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut even further. Her brow furrows like she's trying desperately to absorb the thought. I reach back and undo her hair, combing the strands through my fingers.

"Lay with me?" she whispers.

"Of course," I say. I almost add, _my love_, for some strange reason, and barely choke it back. I wish I didn't have to be so conscious of my every move. Katniss is not an ordinary mooning girl. _Delly,_ I think wryly, _would eat this stuff up. _She's definitely more the girly type. The girl I couldn't help loving is a difficult one. But I'm willing to wait, to keep trusting. One of the ways I fight back against what they've done is by holding on to who I am, as I've always said. I will not let them take away my love, my faith. It's not theirs to have.

I reach to lift my shirt over my head, but her hands come up and ease it off for me. She unbuttons my pants and lets them fall, and her hands caress my hips as she slides her fingers into the elastic at my waist and tugs down my shorts, too.

"Now me," I say, lowering myself down next to her. I'm no longer self-conscious about being naked around her. Her touches are gentle but no longer hesitant. She lets me unbutton her shirt in the front and slide it off. I unbutton it slowly, savoring the process of taking her out of all this fabric that is keeping us from being close the way we need to be. She unhooks her bra for me and shakes it off, and I lean forward and scatter kisses across her breasts, small and round like apples. My hands cup them at the sides, my thumbs running over her nipples as they grow taut. I want to make her feel good, feel safe. I want her to know I love her and want her.

As though she's reading my thoughts, she asks, eyes still closed, in a tremulous voice, "Do you really want me, Peeta? Like you said?" She sounds so uncertain. Katniss still, after all this time, feels broken, I know. I still catch her touching her scar tissue when she's nervous, thinking I don't notice. She never saw herself as someone desirable. But then, she never had the time to.

"More than you could even fathom," I murmur to her, as I kiss down her stomach to her waist, breathing her in. Her skin gives off warmth that I bathe my face in. She still has her pants on. "Let me prove it," I whisper, as my mouth moves to catch hers. She leans in, her arms immediately reaching for me, encircling my neck. The kiss is tender, sweet and hot all at once. I part her lips with my tongue and she meets mine with her own, slowly at first, but then more deeply. I kiss the trails of salt off her cheeks. Then I scoop her up easily and carry her over next to the bed, as her big eyes look questioningly up at me. When I let her stand, I immediately press her back against the wall behind her. It was not only her need that got snuffed out two nights ago, it was my own. Need that waited for her to come back again. This is when I raise her arms and, as her fingers curl around mine, pin them over her head. I see her biting her lip and shifting her thighs together, and it almost makes me laugh. Katniss is working herself…or trying to…as she waits for me.

"None of that," I whisper in her ear, and slide my hand down that long thigh, still encased within her pants, to part them for her. I want to feel the soft skin under that rough corduroy, but I also want to tease her. Her breath is coming faster and her hands hold onto mine tight. My one hand rubs between her thighs roughly, sliding the fabric back and forth over her sensitive places, and I lean in and bite her neck, just hard enough to make her moan. "Payback for all those marks," I tell her, but her eyes roll back and I'm not sure she even hears me. Her body is pliant, willing, moves where I move it, which turns me on more. I rub the tip of my erection against that soft stomach. Drips already gather at the tip, but I wait.

My lips move to her ear, and I tug with my teeth at her earlobe, suckle on it as I keep her pinned, keep moving that fabric in circles against her, pressing down. She's squirming, her hands twisting involuntarily. "Behave," I say teasingly, "Or I won't give you what you want. I'll make you beg like a good girl." I enjoy the power games she encourages in me sometimes. It's a whole different feeling to be put in charge by Katniss. It's not generally my style, but I love watching the change it raises in her. My own speculation is that, in this space, she's allowed to let go for once, surrender her iron grip on the world and herself.

"I will if you want," she breathes, her tongue touching her bottom lip, "I missed your hands…"

"I missed all of you," I say. "Now stay still." I see her struggle, but I know something else, too, which is that this is giving her mind something to do. It's preoccupying her, giving her a task, **and** working to arouse her. She stills, with effort, and I lower my mouth back to her ear.

"When we're ready, I'm going to make love to you," I whisper, "Do you want to feel me inside you?" She groans aloud but doesn't answer. "Do you want to know what it feels like for me to push this…" here I rub my slick head against her belly again "…inside your body? Do you think about it when you touch yourself? Does it make you wet?" I stop rubbing her for a moment, and her hips strain back towards my fingers, which amuses me. I'm turning myself on, too. "Answer me."

"Yes," she moans.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, everything."

"Tell me." She blushes. "Or else I'll stop." I'm smiling. I can't help it.

"I want to feel you inside me," she answers obediently, barely able to catch her breath. "I think about you when I touch myself and it makes me…it makes me wet."

"Oooo, baby," I say as I kiss down her neck. "Good girl." This is my punishment for her brattiness, and I draw it out. I make some of this up as I go along, but I heard my brothers and the guys in my grade gossip enough to get ideas. Johanna gives tips out, too, rather to embarrass me or to offer genuine aid, or both, I can't tell. I won't tell Katniss this, either, since it gives me an advantage.

I draw her pants down and she sighs with relief. I touch her, just lightly, through her underwear, and she might be more turned on than I've ever felt. My cock throbs eagerly at the feeling. I pull those down, too, and, unable to help myself, I suck on two fingers for a second and, with her eyes still closed, push them inside her. She keens like an animal in heat and I know she's ready. I use my body to back her up against the bed and then tumble her onto it. Our bodies press together.

"Don't stop," she begs as I withdraw my fingers. I put them up to her lips and she hesitates just a moment and then obediently sucks them clean. I feel like I might explode just witnessing this, and let out a groan I can't keep back. She's getting to me, and she knows it, so I'd better get her where I want her before I lose it.

I roll off her and she makes an immediate sound of negation. But I have my own designs. I stroke her flat belly with my fingertips, the undercurves of those beautiful breasts, where I know it's sensitive.

"I want you to touch yourself," I say as I nuzzle her neck. "I want you to think about what it's going to be like when we make love the first time, and I'm going to watch as you do it." She makes another noise of dissent, but I can't tell if it's because she'd rather have me do it or because she's uncomfortable. She turns her head to me and I kiss the corners of her eyes, feel her eyelashes against my lips. I don't want her to be uncomfortable, so I add softly, "I'll even say please." I can see her melt a little at this, and her hands move to do as I ask. I scoot down and rest my head on her belly so I can watch. She spreads herself gently with her fingers and I watch as she begins to work herself with skilled fingers. _You've been busy since we got back_, I think. I wouldn't have guessed. I know she won't last long, so my own hand strays to my prick and I gasp as I close around it and begin to stroke. I push up into my own grip. I can tell Katniss sees me, and it must encourage her, because I feel her stomach tense and release under my head over and over.

"You don't know what effect you have on people," I whisper so quietly I don't know if she even hears it. Her thighs are slick. I reach over and rub my palm against the moisture, which makes her cry out, and then back to myself. The wetness speeds me up even more, but I try desperately to hold off. I want to feel her go first. Before too long, she cries my name into the air and I feel her shudder, watch her fingers slow. As the waves begin to dissipate, I can't hang on any longer, and when I come, it shoots almost as high as my chest. Katniss is positively purring by the time I grab a tissue from the nightstand to clean up and move back up to hold her.

She turns to look at me and starts giggling. I'm so relieved to see her calmer, to see her come back to herself, that it reflexively causes a smile. "That was hot," she says, before I can ask my customary, "Okay?"

I kiss her hair, snuggling her into my chest. "Good," I say. I can't help getting one more dig in. "You look like you have a lot of practice. Can't help but think about me in compromising positions?" She shoves me, but not seriously.

"Think you can sleep now?" I ask. She nods. I pull the covers up and tuck them around her, and before I can tell her I love her, she's asleep, her hair tickling my face. But I wouldn't move her for the world.

I know tomorrow Johanna is leaving us again, and the pit of my stomach aches a little, because it's felt so good to have her…and her buddy…around. Whatever horrors the Games inspired, they also created stronger connections between us and those around us than would have been created in a normal situation. The bond that was forged between Katniss and I through pain was also forged with Johanna, with Haymitch, with Finnick. It'll feel too quiet for awhile, without her around cracking sarcastic remarks and giving older-sister advice. Maybe next time, we'll go to her, I think. I've never been to 7. Even as I mourn our relative solitude, though, I know it can only last for so long. The country is moving forward, and we're moving with it, whether we want to or not. The population will begin to grow, Katniss and I will have to establish actual jobs, and the thought of the Capitol dropping in looms. We haven't heard from Katniss' mother or Gale in awhile, either, which means we're overdue for that. They haven't tended to warn us in the past before a random phone call or letter appeared. It might be better, even, to just head it off. As painful a part of her life they represent, and she maybe represents to them, they are all bound together with the rest of us, probably forever.

These are the thoughts I have as I begin to drift. I welcome the sleep, which I hope will be sound, tonight. One last thought flits across my consciousness before I go, and it is this: _would Katniss ever move in with me? _This has never occurred to me before to ask so I jolt for a minute. It would make sense. Our houses are both too quiet with just us in them, and we spend our nights together anyways. We'd still both have a place to go in case we needed to be alone. It's worth consideration. It's a happy thought, and I'm glad to have it as I go, carry it into the dark with me like a light.


	10. An Abundance of Revelations

_***Hi, all! Good to see you. I just wanted everyone to know that it's currently graduate school finals time, so for the next two weeks, I'll only be writing TL&N when I get the chance, so updates might be slower. But then, it'll be summer, so I'll have time for updates galore. In the meantime, thanks for your thoughts and please keep the suggestions coming!_

When I wake, I've somehow inched over to the edge of the bed, which happens sometimes when I'm asleep. I tend to wake before Peeta most mornings; my hunter's senses are attuned to the slightest sounds, which sometimes encourages insomnia. He's asleep, his mouth open, drooling on his pillow. Those unbelievable golden eyelashes are visible in the sunlight slanting through the window. I see the muscles in his arms as he hugs a pillow to him. I remember last night and shiver. Sometimes I'm shocked by this ability I've discovered inside myself to give up power during sex, if nowhere else. It's simple logic, really; this is what turns me on the most, lets me get out of my own head for awhile, let Peeta make these decisions for me, however minor. I realize the amount of trust that must have grown in me towards him, and it seems somewhat unreal, considering he once tried to strangle me. He hasn't had a very serious episode in a long time, and none at all that I've seen recently, though to be fair, it's entirely likely he had one during our fight. Stress exacerbates them.

I resolve to ask Johanna—since I can't ask anyone else—if my sexual proclivities are normal. I imagine Haymitch's reaction, and his facial expressions jump from shock, to smugness, to hilarity rapidly inside my head. Or some combination of the three. Even if I had parents, I can't imagine asking them. But just referencing last night makes me feel flushed all over again. If these are our options, besides the act of sex itself, I think I can be okay with that. Peeta's getting better in his confidence, in directing me. I think of that big hand pinning me to the wall, making me whisper all my desires. _Ah, shit,_ I think, as I feel my nether regions responding. There's no time for that. I have plans with Johanna, and she's leaving today, I think a little sadly. Life back to normal, whatever that is. I stretch, but I won't leave the bed without waking Peeta: because he'll want to see Johanna too, but also because I know how nervous it makes him for me to be gone in the mornings.

I lean over and wrap my arms around his broad back, kiss his ear. He shifts slightly. I nibble up the side, burying my nose into those curls that are getting longer and longer. I kind of like them long, actually.

"Wake up, gorgeous," I whisper teasingly into his ear. He makes an "mmm" sound as he begins to come to. I kiss down the back of his neck, along his spine. I like holding him like this, though usually he holds me. It makes me feel protective, like when we were in the cave. The first time I felt that our kisses might actually become something. But soon he rolls over, and his face lights up at seeing me, as it does every morning, a thought, like a shooting star, rolls across my consciousness: _what would it be like to see that face every morning, for the rest of my life? _These thoughts are safe, as long as they're only mine, I guess. But it's a lovely smile, and it makes me feel safe and loved, which just now, I am.

He yawns, sleepily, and wraps his arms around me. Rolling over the top of me, he leans on his elbows and kisses my cheeks, my nose, my mouth, which is still hungry. I cup the back of his neck in my palms. Those unwavering blue eyes look down into mine. Then he asks a question, still sleepily, that I don't understand at first.

"What can I call you?" I blink in surprise.

"What?"

"What would you let me call you?"

"You mean, besides my name?" The confusion must be apparent in my tone. As he begins to wake up more fully, he bites his lip, as though maybe he's deciding this is a conversation for a later date. But he knows my intractability; I will pester him incessantly once he brings something up, until I know what he means.

"I was going to say 'good morning,'" he says slowly, but what I really wanted to say was, 'good morning, my love.'"

My heart betrays me and skips a beat and I feel like the girl that I never feel like. Hunter, killer, Victor, protector, Mockingjay, breadwinner, Girl on Fire. None of these positions have ever either expected this of me, or had room for it. I was the son to my father, all along, but I only figured it out when he died. Almost with prescience, he had taught me the skills I needed to take care of my family. Sometimes I wonder if he knew that one day, I'd be the only one who could. Love? Has this word, so recently a verb, evolved into a noun? I don't know what to think of this. The longer I'm quiet, the more distressed Peeta looks, and I hate that look, like he's tiptoeing around me, as though I might go on the attack at any time…which really, I might, given my history. As much as I hate it, I've given him reason to have that look.

"I don't know what to say," I say, just to say something. It's early still, I can tell by the light, so at least I can stall for a bit before I need to fetch Johanna.

"Okay," he says, "I just…I'm sorry if that's too fast, I just didn't feel comfortable without asking you, and sometimes…sometimes I almost slip."

_Sometimes he almost slips into calling me….?_

Then I surprise myself. This used to be rare, but has been becoming more common. Growth in one area of your life, I've learned, does not necessarily mean growth in another, and until recently, my people skills have both been woefully nonexistent and universally uninteresting to me. Until I lost those I loved and had taken for granted for so many years, and like all of us, was forced to begin again.

"Okay," I say. This is not the response he expects. I see the shock in his face.

"Well, it's logical, right?" I try to reason aloud. "I already know that's how you f…" But he blocks the rest with a kiss, which I lean into. I'm smiling when we break apart. All this came about the day I decided in the woods that life was too short and I was a fool if I wanted to deny the joyful and good moments in it, the ones that Peeta brings to me.

He speaks slowly, with deliberation, and I understand the importance to him of what he says. He could have been waiting weeks to bring this up, for all I know. We've been back for many months, and sleeping together on a regular basis for at least three of them, now. I tell him I love him rarely, still, but it is true.

"Good morning, my love," he says. And the words are not scary, but sweet.

"Good morning," I whisper. I know intuitively that he knows I cannot do it, can't say the lovely words back to him, not yet. Maybe someday. I kind of hope so. He strokes my hair, kisses my one bare shoulder that pokes out of the blankets. The warmth of the kiss lingers when he pulls away.

"I have to hunt with Johanna," I say, "Before she goes." I see the sadness flicker in his eyes, and I know what it means without him saying it. "Yeah, I know," I say. "But it's not like before. The people that leave come back."

"Can you leave me some time to see her before she goes?" he asks.

"Of course! We'll only take a few hours. Let's plan an early dinner together."

He nods. Before I get up to get dressed, I sit up, which pushes him up too. Sitting on my own folded knees, I pull him in close, pressing our nudity against one another. The embrace is short, but passionate. There are always things I want to convey to Peeta that I can't find the words to say, but these are simple. "Thank you for last night, Peeta," I tell him, "Thank you in a lot of ways."

"Anytime you want," he murmurs, and kisses me, openmouthed. I can feel his morning erection pressing into me, but there's nothing to be done about that now. "Next weekend, do you want to just spend it in bed with me?" He's smiling. I'm seriously considering the merits of this as I get up and begin to dress. Most of my clothes have been migrating into Peeta's closet, except the ones from Cinna, which I never touch. They stand as a sort of morbid but beautiful memorial in the closet at home. But it's more convenient this way, since it got old trekking back every morning in his just to dig up mine. My bow and arrows hang in the corner, over my boots. I slide them on and quickly twist my messy hair into a braid.

"I'll see you in a bit," I tell him as I slip out. He's still waking up, I can tell, but he nods, blows me a kiss at the last minute. This brings Prim inexplicably to mind, but my reaction to that is always the same. _No. No, no, no, no, no. Get out._ I know this is not a strategy that will last forever, but it's good enough for now. I ease downstairs and grab two of his rolls on the way. I cross the green and enter my own space, and Johanna's already up and dressed, giving her dog water and leftovers, her knife stuck in her belt. When she turns to me, she looks moderately rested. I toss her a roll. She looks like she might even have attempted a shower this morning—or some form of cleaning. _Too bad she can't take dust baths like the chickens,_ I think wryly. "Rest alright?"

"Only one nightmare," she says. "One nightmare is a good night. I think it's just because it's an unfamiliar place. Once I saw Mutt I was okay." She doesn't elaborate on the contents of the dream, and I don't ask.

"Ready to go?" is all I say. Her valise is packed on the floor by her feet, but there must be almost nothing in it, because I swear she's been wearing the same clothes—or at least very slight variations of them—this whole time. She sees me looking and says by way of explanation, "Routine helps. Sameness. Another thought from my Great and Powerful Shrink." Her tone of snark is identical whenever she mentions doctors. I always get the impression she didn't like them much even before 13.

We head out together, Johanna moving soundlessly behind me, like last time. When we cross the district fence, I feel at home again. I dig Gale's bow out of the tree and feel the same pang as last time. I hand it off, with the arrows, and find myself wishing for a second that I had axes to offer her, instead. She'd bring back a haul that would last a month. Pretty soon, I'm going to have to start paying to have things drawn and quartered, if only so they'll fit in Peeta's fridge. Spring is coming and the "throw everything in the snow" approach is not going to be viable. But for today, we should be okay. It's unusually cold this morning, and I'm glad we're dressed for it.

We head down one of my known hunting routes, which meanders through the forest to the west of the lake. Johanna spots the first game before even I do…a pair of rabbits eating the low green berries she collected last time from the bushes. I can't wait until the rest of the berries are in season—we'll eat like royalty. I take the first one cleanly, but the second one wheels before I can reload. I stick it in my belt and move on. I think fleetingly how surprising it is that the wild dog pack hasn't been around the village. Maybe they don't know the fence isn't still electrified. Regrettably, I think, they will need some sort of real barrier, sooner or later. I take two pheasants on the wing—pheasants are slow-moving and easy to bag—and before I can move on, I see a flash of silver out of the corner of my eye and hear the high pitched **eyyyyy-yip!** that is Johanna's war cry. When I turn, there's a good sized woodchuck with a knife through its heart. She pulls it free without a second's thought and sticks him in her own belt. I'm looking approving. She pauses to scoop up some of those berries into a little leather pouch that's cleverly attached to her belt. She wipes her blade on the leaves and sticks it back where it belongs. When I nail another squirrel with a well-placed arrow soon after, she draws her own and gives the next one we see a try. It's a good twenty yards off, and she misses by inches. She swears convincingly. I want to ask her my questions about sex, but not now, when it'll keep the game off. That puts us up a rabbit, a woodchuck, two pheasants, and a squirrel, though. We've only been in for about two hours. So I figure we have time. I make a snap decision and turn her to the east. If we trek for another thirty minutes, my lake is down here.

I never even invited Peeta to the lake with me. I associate it with Gale, which might have something to do with it—I've taken him into the woods a few times to gather, but I've never gone to Gale's and my place, either. To be fair, I don't go there even by myself, since it reminds me too much of that last morning before the Reaping, when everything was the same. But Johanna has grown into the type of best friend that Peeta can't be, because he's my lover, which makes him another animal. And so, because I'm tired of being alone, roping off whole sections of my life against intruders, I take her. When the top of the old house down there comes into view and she asks about it, I tell her the story of Bonnie and Twill.

"Did you see them in 13?" she asks.

"No. They never made it," I still hear that old touch of bitterness tainting my voice. "They were almost there, too. But they didn't know what they were doing in the woods; it's amazing they even got this far in the winter." We light a fire in the old fireplace and I roast the squirrel over it. I'll get another on the way home. Johanna tears into the greasy meat and stares out the empty doorway at the lake.

"Are there fish in there?" I nod.

"Under the ice. Sometimes I come and break through and get some. Gale and I…" I don't finish this sentence, because there's no point. I switch topics.

"You should feel special, brainless," I tease her, "I never bring anyone here. It's sort of my safe haven. My father used to take me here." This is almost more of a sensitive subject than Gale, but she simply nods. We mostly volunteer painful information rather than asking about it outright. But I know a subject that will take me away for awhile, of course.

"Hey, I have a sort-of-embarrassing question I can't ask anyone but you," I say.

She smirks. "Because I'm so **special?**"

"Because I don't know what the hell I'm doing and I'm thinking you do." I pause, unsure if this is a sensitive question or not, then plunge ahead. "Did you have a lot of lovers in the Capitol?"

She laughs, but it's dry. "Not as many as Snow would have liked for me to have," and suddenly, in a flash, I get a mental image of what happened to her family. Defiant Johanna, like Haymitch, like me. Finnick, in his own way, was defiant, too, slowly accumulating his secrets, waiting with patience until he could wield them like his trident, but he had patience, tact, an ability to endure that we do not have, Johanna, Haymitch and I. "You refused his…offer?" I ask carefully.

"Actually, I told him to go fuck himself," she says, "If we're being totally precise about it." Even I suck in my breath at this. If this is true—and there's no reason to believe it's not—she's lucky she's here at all to tell about it.

"And he didn't…have you killed?" I breathe quietly.

"Oh, no. He doesn't play like that. I thought you learned that lesson from Finnick and Peeta," she says, a little contemptuously, "Snow likes to drag it out. He likes the game. There are far worse things than dying, Katniss."

This, at least, I know. Watching Peeta come back as he was…I would have died to save him from that.

"Didn't like it much, though," she continues. "So he found other ways of dampening my…spirit. For awhile, at least. He underestimated me, though. In a way, he even did me a favor. When you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose." This is where she ends the conversation. "Why did you ask about my sex life, Girl on Fire? Are we going to have a bonding moment?" She's smirking, back to herself.

"Well, I….haven't," I say lamely.

"I'm aware. You're lucky for it, too. If the Quarter Quell hadn't come up, and your then-imaginary love affair, you'd be able to answer your own questions now," she says grimly.

"Peeta and I…this thing hasn't been going on for very long, not really," I begin. "It took a long time after everything for some of the trust to come back. And we're still having the nightmares, and he still has the hallucinations. For awhile, all I did was hide in the woods all day, or curl up in bed, and try to remember to breathe. We weren't really functional enough to interact on anything but a superficial level."

"Plus, there was always the possibility that he'd strangle you," she says, morbidly cheerful all of a sudden, which startles me into a laugh.

"Yes, thanks. When we started just sleeping in the same bed, it helped us heal, I think. But we came back with no one but Haymitch for comfort, so in a way, I felt like we were forced together, which gave me doubts. I don't want to be with him because I need him to survive. Does that make sense?"

She tilts her hand back and forth: yes and no.

I wait.

"Well, you both founded a whole relationship—using the term loosely—on the fact that you needed each other for mutual survival," she says, "So, really, you'll never be able to ignore the fact that you were sort of bonded through fire and circumstance. Not that that makes it any less important or powerful," she adds, hastily, when my face falls.

"I mean, so were you and Gale, if you think about it," she continues, "Only it was of a different kind." This never occurs to me, but it is true. She must make up all these amazing insights inside her head when she's busy avoiding everyone at home.

"Is it bad, do you think?"

"Nah. I mean, it shouldn't be the only reason, but it just comes down to the two of you working together to bring out the good in each other. Find balance, you know? It's easier to be hard than soft."

"You're one to talk."

"I think I've earned my right to take the path of least resistance."

"Anyways, now I don't know what we are—lovers, I guess, but nothing structured, since I can't handle it yet…but of course, eventually it turned into something sexual. Hormones." I sound glum, like I wish I had none. This belies, of course, my fascination with this entire process and all it entails.

"Inevitable," she says, "And Peeta's your safest choice for that, now that his mind is clearing up and he's not trying to kill your mutt ass all the time," she tells me affectionately. "You know, you're kind of a late bloomer already."

I ignore this. "So I'm figuring it out, and when we're not bickering, it's been…" I can't have this entire conversation without blushing, unfortunately… "really good."

"Obviously, if you were trying to fuck him," she says, to get a rise out of me. Johanna uses more profanity than anyone I know.

"I was trying to **make love**," I say haughtily, which makes her laugh.

"Get to the point, Girl on Fire. Hey, now you're really on fire, only…" I cut her off. I can only be needled so much.

"I like it when he bosses me around," I say, cutting to the chase.

"Doesn't look like it!" She says again, cheerfully. She's being difficult.

"**In bed, **jackass."

"Ooooo, kinky."

"Is that normal?" I ask.

"Dirty deets," she says, "Or no advice."

I sigh and tell her the story of last night's adventure. She's looking entranced, which both amuses and annoys me. I think she might be living vicariously through me.

"So," I conclude, "What I hate in life, apparently I can't get enough of in bed. Which is really confusing because you'd think I wouldn't hand over any power to anyone, after everything that's happened. That I could use all of it that I can get. Plus, Peeta always defers to me! You know that. Haymitch knows that. Everyone who isn't blind knows that. Is this some sort of sick thing I need to stop?"

She laughs, "If that's the worst thing you're into, Katniss, then I guess we're both going to hell."

"You're into that stuff?" I'm blinking, my eyes wide. _No way,_ I think, _Johanna Mason? Johanna MASON? _I can't picture her surrendering anything…not a conversation, not a belief, not her stuff, not her body…to anyone.

"Oh, not the way you are," she says. It takes me a minute, during which she observes me with a look on her face that clearly says she thinks I'm slow. "Wait, you mean…"

"You should let me get a hold of you one of these days," she chirps, "Or better yet, let Peeta and I team up. I know things about domination…and women…that it'll take dear Peeta YEARS to learn." She's smirking in a self-satisfied way. Now this, I can picture perfectly well. I've never thought about girls the way I now think about Peeta, but a flicker of a mental image of Johanna, with all that power and demanding nature packed into her slight frame, doing the things Peeta's doing, sends a totally unexpected flash of heat through my cheeks, turning them scarlet. _Oh yes,_ I think, _I bet you do._ Then my mind snags on the last half.

"About…women?" I ask.

She looks at me exasperatedly again. Johanna sometimes thinks I'm a moron, I think. Her tolerance for stupidity is staggeringly low.

"What did you think, Katniss? Everyone knows that."

"How would I have possibly…" I'm suddenly so intensely curious, I want to know everything. What she knows about domination, what she knows about women, everything. "**Just**….women?" I manage to get out.

She grins. "I'm equal opportunity. If I had to choose forever, I guess, yeah, women, but, you know I'm a hunter."

I don't feel any differently towards her but I'm seized by the desire to ask her all kinds of inappropriate questions about her private life. I restrain myself. We're off subject, after all.

"Did you tell Peeta what to do? With me?"

"Maybe I gave him pointers," she says, slyly. "Hey, I'll pay you to let me watch."

I'm snickering. "Not a chance."

"You might liiiiike it," she teases.

"An-y-ways," I say, enunciating, "What should I do about it? I mean, it's not the only thing that's effective, but it definitely is the most. How does it…work, exactly?"

"Well," she says, "When a man and a woman love each other very much…"

I'm cracking up. I can't help it.

"Johanna!"

"Um, well, Katniss, you do what he tells you to do, and if you feel uncomfortable, ask him to stop….but if you get deeper into it, make up a word besides 'stop' that means the same thing, because you might be saying stop and meaning go."

"Saying stop and meaning go?" I say in bewilderment, "Wait, if I say stop to a guy, isn't it kind of a given that he stops? Peeta said stop and I did, even though I didn't want to, and even though I acted out of order…"

"Not like that," she explains patiently. "I mean, as play. If he gets better, he might push you gently to do more, open up more, trust him more."

"He already has been," I say, thinking aloud about the slow series of events that's been unfolding. Never serious….never forceful…but demanding. What Johanna is talking about is kind of like a game, where I hide and Peeta seeks.

"What if I'm scared or embarrassed?"

"Have you been before?"

"Yes," I admit, recalling the first time he had me expose myself for him, recalling last night and those forced-out words…mmm. I can't go there.

"And?"

"And it was **awesome.**"

"Ha. Then, you know, let yourself go with it a little while, see how it goes. Peeta's not the type to insist on anything and I don't think he'd ever hurt you. You know that. He just likes playing with you, seeing how far you'll go. You're a challenge, Katniss! It must be fun to come up against and watch you surrender. I can just imagine it now…"

I shove her. "Don't!"

I'm grateful for the advice, and it's about time to move, so we shoulder our game bags and haul and begin to move out. I stamp out the fire. Johanna turns as we go and takes one wistful look back at the lake. "Sure is beautiful," she sighs. "Thanks for sharing."

I nod. I'm not sorry I did. The company was soothing, forming new, happier memories in place of sad and lonely ones. As we trek towards home, Johanna manages to hit a skunk with one of Gale's arrows and adds that to her woodchuck. I get another squirrel. We can make rabbit stew tonight. We stash the other bow and arrows and clear out of the woods and head for the Hob, since the day will never come when I need all this food. I trade away a pheasant, and a half gallon of wild greens I pulled along the way for some potatoes, new soap, shoelaces, make a deal with the shoe man to resole my boots, which are starting to lose it around the seams. Johanna hands off the berries. I hold onto those and the squirrel for the dairy. I have some coin to add to it. Johanna keeps her game, since this is the last night she's helping to feed herself. I let her wander, and when she comes back, it's with a triumphant look in her eyes.

"Look!" she says excitedly, and brandishes an eight-inch kabar knife with a serrated blade near the finely crafted handle. I imagine she used up all her game getting it, but it's beautiful. There's very little arms trade here, and the Peacekeepers frown on it, but every now and then, there's a vendor who sets up in a corner and has these types of knives. I don't even know where he gets them, unless he actually forges them. Most people, obviously, use them in their kitchens, but I don't think that's why Johanna's excited. She sticks it in the other side of her belt, a matched set. They look good on her.

We drop by the dairy and I add some coins to my trade and pick up our milk, eggs, and cheese. If we got some animals, that would save some of this trouble, and I resolve to talk to Peeta about the possibility. I know there are those in the district that raise cows and chickens and pigs for food. Afterwards, we walk up the path towards the Village. It's around one now, which gives us a little while to make dinner and eat before Johanna has to catch her train. Peeta's up, working in the yard moving stones around to build low walls for the gardens, and he waves and wipes dirty hands on his pants when he sees us. Haymitch is on the steps watching him, reliably with a bottle of wine next to him, half empty. As usual, he hasn't bothered with glasses.

"Hi, sweetheart," he calls, and I'm relieved he's not slurring yet. "Hi, Johanna." Always the diminutive. She waves and I grunt. "Anyone want to help me not ruin dinner?" I ask.

"After I take a quick shower," Peeta says, leaving his pile. I can tell he wants to lean in for a kiss, but he's filthy and we have an audience. But all I can think about is last night, and my conversation with Johanna, so it might be better anyways not to get me started. I know how to start a rabbit stew so Johanna and I go into Peeta's house and she begins to skin while I boil potatoes and wash greens. By the time Peeta comes down, dripping wet and toweling his hair, the stew is bubbling, greens are laid out in bowls with salt, pepper and vinegar, and his bread is neatly sliced and ready for toasting, a task I can't manage alone. He does that part while Johanna washes blood off her hands, the table, and the sink. Haymitch wanders in and falls down into a chair.

"Nice of you to help, Haymitch," I say irritably.

"You know me, ever the joiner," he replies, taking another swig out of the bottle. "Besides, how will you ever learn to cook like a good wife if I help all the time?" This comment makes Johanna snort laughter, which tempers it a bit. I catch a twinkle in Peeta's eye, too, and stomp on his foot. He gives me a look of mock indignation.

When we sit to eat, Haymitch pulls out another bottle of wine and pours it. I try to wave him off and he smirks. "Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll keep the real stuff on the top shelf," he says. "This is just for toasting." With the stew, the greens, the bread, candles lit and everything, I think that this is the family I've built, and I feel triumphant inside. They can never take everything from us. Our will is too strong. Haymitch holds up a glass.

"To moxie," he says, and we all laugh. "To Johanna. And to victory being so much more than they thought it was."

"I'll drink to that," I say. And we drink together. I take it very easy, though. I have no plans on repeating the other night. While we eat, we talk about the transportation, speculate about when we might be able to see Johanna again. "It might be easier if you come out to me," she says. "Katniss, you pretty much have a free pass to go wherever you want."

"I never use it, but I guess that's true," I say.

"You might have to soon," she says, her face suddenly serious. "The Capitol's new government has given you a lot of leeway, but they're not going to forever. Sooner or later they're going to be up your ass again, getting footage or god-knows-what, something to keep their audience satiated. There's always going to be an audience, you know. Maybe now worse than ever." She sighs. "They won't go anywhere near me yet, but sooner or later, they'll get to all of us." She smirks, then. "Except you, Haymitch. They're afraid you'll fall off the stage."

He smirks back at her. Johanna's snarks never bother him. Just mine. But he's known her longer, I remember, so maybe he's just more accustomed to her ways. Or maybe, he understands more about what she's gone through to be here. Of course, Peeta and I have, too, but Haymitch and Johanna, if my guess about her family is right, share a special bond. They were punished in the way I spent all my time fearing I would be punished. At least my mother got away. And Gale. And Peeta, of course.

Dinner goes too fast, and then Johanna is hoisting her suitcase over her shoulder and leashing her dog. When no one is looking I lean down and kiss his snout. He wags his tail at me. "Good dog," I whisper. I'm not forgetting what he did to comfort me. The four of us leave together for the station. Johanna's train comes at 4:30 and we reach the station about a quarter-hour before that.

"What are you going to do when you get home?" I ask.

"Try to keep living," she says matter-of-factly. "Try to keep remembering that I still have things to live for. And people." She smiles at us. "Thanks for the hospitality. From both of us."

"Anytime," I say, but it comes out sounding sad. She must hear it, because she takes my hand and squeezes it. "You keep giving 'em hell, Girl on Fire," she whispers to me. I remember when she made me promise to kill Snow. I never kept it, but he died in the end anyways. When her train pulls in and the Peacekeepers step forward to help her in, she hugs us in turn, me last. When I hug her it's fierce and I'd like to think, full of love. I don't want to let go. So few people give me hugs that tight. She holds me at arm's length by the shoulders when she lets go, and says, just before she goes, "They'll never get you." This is the fable we all tell each other over and over again, hoping to make it true.

"They'll never get you," I whisper back, and then she's climbing on, her big dog bounding happily beside her. As the doors slide shut, Peeta wraps his arms around me from behind. I almost forgot he was there. "She'll be back," he murmurs into my ear, his chin on my shoulder. I'm quiet. When Johanna's face appears in the window, she waves, just once, and we wave back. Then the train pulls away and it's we three again, our little triad back to normal. I wonder idly if Buttercup will show his face again now. He must hate me more than ever. My brain is trying to focus on things other than the fact that she's gone.

We walk home in the twilight. It seems too quiet without the big dog bounding loudly ahead and behind, wagging his tail. _Dogs are useful animals_, I think, my brain trying to wander away again, _good for hunting. Good for guarding. Not like a stupid cat._ Haymitch and us part ways, and he actually thanks us for dinner. It's nice when Haymitch is mostly sober. It feels like interacting with a real person, not the person the Capitol made him, although about the alcohol use, I don't judge. I saw his Quell. I don't need to see what happened after. Peeta and I cut to his house and he carries a bundle of wood from the porch inside so we can have a fire. Upstairs, he lights it, and in the bathroom, I change into something he probably never thought I'd have. It's a nightgown, white cotton with wisp-thin straps and tiny rosebuds embroidered around the neckline. It was my mother's when she was younger, but I usually sleep in old castoff clothing, worn out for maximum comfort…or lately, nothing. I let down my hair, which has grown past my shoulders and which I finally let Delly trim after she commented on it about six times, and when I look in the mirror…a luxury we didn't have for most of my life…I see another version of myself. I look older. I look like a woman, not a girl. It's disconcerting. I touch the scar tissue at the side of my neck. It's ugly, and I'm still self-conscious of it after all this time, even around Peeta—not that this matters at all to him—but I don't regret my decision. I will carry what happened to Prim around all my life on my body. If one day I begin to forget what they're capable of, what human beings are capable of, I'll be forced to remember. Like Haymitch, I will always have one eye out, this way.

When I step from the bedroom Peeta has a roaring fire going and he's dragged a pile of blankets and pillows in front of it. He's arranging it, leaning over, wearing only cutoff shorts, and when he straightens and sees me, his whole face changes. There's a softness in his eyes that I only remember feeling once in my own—with Prim. His lips part and those magnificent eyes regard me with adoration and almost reverence. I forget about the scars, in the moment. I move forward, and he crushes me against his chest. I can feel his breathing, heavy, like he's trying to catch his breath. "Where did you get that?" he whispers against my hair.

"It was my mother's," I tell him. "Do you like it?"

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And you know how I appreciate beauty." I can hear the smile in his voice. He tugs me down onto the blankets, and I gently unfasten his leg for him and set it aside. He lies behind me and wraps me up in the blankets and his arms. Lightly, he pushes the strap of one arm down and kisses up my shoulder, up my neck. I shiver. His hand gently cups my breast. I press back into him as close as I can get, almost as if we were one person.

"I love you," he whispers, as we watch the fire. It's early in the night, and I'm not tired yet, but there's nowhere I'd rather be, and with no one else. _Maybe, _I think, _he'll love me even more, yet, tonight. _I hope so.

"I know," I tell him, and I squeeze his hand to me, against my heart.

And so it goes.


	11. The Reflection

Life returns to normal, with the possible exception of Katniss being even quieter than usual. Lost in thought one day in the middle of a painting on what is shaping up to be a beautiful early-spring afternoon, I contemplate this. Haymitch and I, I suspect, are more adept at seeing the long-range view: him because he's had the experience to shed the impatience of youth, and me because I went from waiting for Katniss to notice me to waiting to either escape or be killed by two arenas and then the Capitol's torturers, which is a comparative lot of my short life spent waiting, with no other options. Katniss is accustomed to the short-range view…it's been yet one more way she's adapted to survive. Just to get to the next day, and then begin all over again, finding food, forgiving her mother, saving herself, saving me. I can see a future; often it seems as though she can't, or can't tolerate it, or doesn't believe in it. She treats many of her encounters as though they might be her last. It's like this when Johanna leaves. She answers people in short, clipped sentences. Haymitch gives her a wide berth. "She needs time," he says. His eyes are sober and strangely faraway when he says it. I know this, but I ask him anyways.

"What do you know that I don't?"

He laughs shortly and mumbles. "All kinds of useful things…that's what makes _me_ mentor."

I sigh and wait. That's all you can do with him, sometimes.

He finally answers me. "She needs friends, Peeta. You're not a friend. She misses company."

This makes me defensive immediately. "I'm her friend!"

"You're her **lover**_._ That's not the same." When he sees the look on my face, he hastens, "Look, I'm not comparing. It's likely because of that you know **more**than most people about how she operates. But you are never going to be everything."

"Gale was everything," I mutter. It never seemed like she wanted friends back then. But this makes me sound childish and I regret it as soon as it comes out of my mouth.

"**Prim** was everything," he says sharply, like I'm missing the point entirely. "In case you've forgotten, Gale was probably instrumental in her death. When was the last time you heard her talk about him?"

I consider this. It has been a long time. She talks about Johanna. Occasionally, we talk together about Delly, but Katniss will never be close with her the way she's been with others. Delly went through the bombing and the rebuilding, it's true, but she'll never know what the rest of us know. One more injustice we can charge the Gamemakers with is separating us from the rest of the world forever, and creating an Us and Them even amongst ourselves. I understand why so many of the Victors knew each other and were friends. A stab touches my heart at the thought of Finnick, who saved my life….**all** our lives…and Katniss' sanity. What a thoughtless waste.

"Do you think she'll talk to him again?" I ask, my toe prodding the ashes in his empty fireplace. I hauled him over some game and some greens from her, that morning, because she'd left early, before I was even really conscious. For the first few days, she dragged her feet going into the woods, and I knew why, but I guess she's settled back into a routine now. I trust Haymitch's intuition. But he sighs immediately, as though this question is one at the forefront of his own mind.

"That's the question of the day," he says to me. He's being maddeningly cryptic, but again, I hold my tongue. This information is worth waiting for. He answers me without a word, though, and pulls an envelope from an inner pocket on his vest. When he hands it to me, I don't even need to look at it to know what it is. This has come hard on the heels of both Johanna's visit and her prognostication: the reality is that we've gone longer than I expected without word from the Capitol. I'm not persuaded by the temporary absence that they've finished their business with us; I've known for a long time that they're simply on a new timeframe, have other things to busy themselves with, and this has bought us time. Not forever. Clearly. Because when I glance at the envelope resignedly, it reads, in a hard, confident masculine hand:

Katniss Everdeen

#9, Victor's Village

District 12

Panem

But of course, this is only half. The other half bears Gale's return address. I notice in passing that the street he lives on, which I remember from our nightmarish run through the Capitol, is near Snow's mansion—they've been installed in the inner circle of the city. I suddenly feel overwhelmed with tiredness. I don't want to deal with this. We've been home for only seven months…Katniss for a little longer, since it took them some time to bring me back enough that I could be trusted more or less on my own, but it suddenly feels like no time at all.

"She's going to have your head, Haymitch. This has her name on it."

"I'll put it back. I just thought you should have a heads-up." I'm grateful for this. There's no telling what her reaction to this will be—her emotions are erratic, volatile. She takes—or is supposed to be taking—medication to help her readjust, but I haven't noticed much difference in this. She's slowly becoming more measured in her downswings, as they're fewer now and less debilitating, but her emotions in general are still ever-shifting. Her last phone call with her doctor did not end well. She didn't talk about it, but I suspect he's dissatisfied with how their conversations are going, or he's not achieving his desired outcome, which, I think a little cynically, might be to flatten her out even beyond herself.

"What are we going to do?"

"**We**_?"_ He snorts. "I don't see where **we** come in."

"What do you think he wants?"

"What do **you** think he wants?" he snaps back. My question is stupid. More than likely, Gale's asking, either on his own behalf, on someone else's, or both, that she come out to see them, or that they come here to see her. I'm pettily angry with him. She's just come around to me in the past few months, and under the anger is fear that I'll begin to lose her again—maybe not to him now, but to him in the past. To her memories.

"Think she'll go?" I'm hoping he says _not a chance._

"Eventually," he says. This is unhelpful, because I knew it already.

"Think she'll go **now**_?_" I ask. I hate how needy I sound to myself.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Haymitch mumbles under his breath, and I notice his eyes shift over my shoulder. I turn, dread in the pit of my stomach. Katniss, of course, is standing in the doorway, with fire in her eyes. She's back far too early, so she must have forgotten something. Which is bad luck for everyone, including her, at the moment.

"**What**is **that**?" she asks in a dangerous voice. Haymitch must understand the meaning of "screwed," because he hands it to her. A normal person would try to justify themselves now, but Haymitch, not being a normal person, merely spins a chair around and sits with his arms on the back of it, crossed. He reaches for the bottle of white liquor on the table and takes a long pull from it.

"I wouldn't go yet if I were you," he says, as though she's solicited his advice, but I'm the one who recognizes this as a mistake. Telling Katniss **not** to do anything is an excellent way of making her rethink it.

"Why…do you….have my mail…Haymitch?" she asks slowly and deliberately. Her voice whips like a snake.

"Why don't you open it?" he asks her, ignoring the question, "That way, we can get it all over with."

"Keep your goddamn hands off my things!" she explodes. Strands of hair are loose from her braid but even they don't help to soften her face. Her features seem carved in stone. Her eyes are bottomless as he hands it to her and she notices the return address. He gets off the hook, because I see her visibly deflate. Her eyes have completely ignored my presence, and now they're fixated on the address.

_Now everything is going to change,_ I think resentfully.

I think for a moment she's going to just tear it, throw it away, just pretend it never happened. But she can't, as I wouldn't be able to. She shoves it into her back pocket and wipes her hands on her dirty pants, as though they're defiled by touching it. All three of us stand and stare at each other for a moment. Haymitch takes another drink. I'm tense, and it's all I can do not to grab that bottle and fling it out the window. I need him, and I need him sober, because I don't know what to do now.

Then she whirls, and is gone, and I don't think before I go after her; it's just automatic. She's moving fast, not back towards the woods, but towards her house. I'm afraid for her to be alone. Selfishly, I'm afraid to be alone, too, for different reasons.

"Katniss!" I call out. She has size on her side, and I think she's going to get away after all, get into the house and bolt the door against me, Haymitch, the world. She keeps trying to shut it out, but what she really needs to shut out is herself, and she can't.

"**Katniss**!" I plead. "Talk to me!" And to my amazement, she stops. She's breathing heavily. She turns slowly, and I can actually see the steely resolve and vulnerability warring in her eyes.

"I need two things from you," she says, fighting to keep her voice even.

"Okay," I agree immediately. We're still standing ten feet apart but, like interacting with a wild animal, I stay where I am.

She pulls the envelope from her back pocket and flings it on the ground between us. "I need you to take that. And don't give it back right now. You'll know when."

I stoop and pick it up, tuck it carefully into my back pocket. "Alright."

"Also, I need something to do, now."

"You're not hunting?" I ask carefully. She doesn't answer, just stands looking up at me, waiting. I'm not the one who gets to ask the questions today.

"Okay," I say, "Come on." This is my plan today anyways, and no one will question her attendance…in fact, they'll be grateful for it. I don't try to touch her, and she doesn't try to touch me, she simply falls in line behind me as I turn down the path to town. We're quiet. She has told me what she needs. All I can do is hope she'll continue to do so. I take her, of course, to my job site. The bakery is half up now, heavy stones raised and mortared to build walls. It's bigger than my old one, and it's arranged differently, for which I'm grateful. The crew still has to finish the frame, put in windows, haul in an oven. Different crews are working on different shops and buildings around town, 5 or 6 each on a crew. Luceid shakes her hand firmly, of course knowing who she is. Katniss is little, but she's strong. The work is time-consuming, tiring, and for me, at least, it helps clear my mind in its repetition. I introduce her to the men on my team, and she begins to work with me building a chimney, scaling the stones of the escalating walls to add bricks to it as it gets above our heads. She scales the walls easily and without fear. She works silently, but fast, her hands growing dirty and rough. Together, we build what will be my chimney. The work suits her, I can tell. But when the rest of us stop for lunch, she works on, smoothing mortar and clearing smaller rubble away. We work through the day. The extra person makes a difference. When the sun begins to move towards the west, Luceid dismisses us, but he tells her clearly that she's welcome back anytime, and thanks her. She smiles for the first time all day.

On the walk back home, she's quiet again, speaking only two words to me: "Thank you."  
>"You're welcome," I say softly. I expect her to veer off towards her house again and I'm trying to work out inside my head what I should do when she does, but to my surprise, it's mine that she turns to. After we hang our coats, she slips into the living room and I find her there a few minutes later, curled in a ball on the couch, her head on the arm. I pull wood from the pile and start a fire for her, and then move away into the kitchen, though I leave the door between the two open so I can hear her. I toast bread with butter, stuff it with cheese and the last of the bacon, pour out iced tea from the fridge, and, when it's all finished, bring it to her on a plate. When I re-enter the room, she's moved to the floor in front of the fire. Her arms are curled around her body, hugging it, as though she can't get warm. I pull a throw off the couch and wrap it around her shoulders, and kneel down to place the plate beside her. She looks up at me, and in that naked look, I can tell that she doesn't know what to do now, either. She's spent so long trying to erase him, because remembering him requires her to remember other people, complexity, loss.<p>

"You have to eat something," I say gently to her.

She turns back to the fire. "He's going to want me to go back."

"I know," I say.

She rubs her eyes with her knuckles, like a child, and suddenly, I don't have the will to restrain myself, whatever the reaction may be. I sit behind her and wrap her in my arms, pull her back against my chest, breathe in her hair. She sighs, and it's an adult sigh, the sigh of someone who has no one to tell her what to do and is burdened with making impossible decisions. But she picks up the sandwich and takes a bite, which is something. She holds it out to inspect it. "It's good," she says, dully. Obediently, she eats most of it. I stroke her hair lightly as she eats, untangling the ends of her braid with my fingers. It's a mark of how far we've come that she doesn't resist it.

"Was it okay, today?" I ask. She nods. "Better," she says. I don't know better than what, nor do I ask.

"Come shower with me," I implore her. She doesn't resist, but when we reach the top of the stairs and I stop to take off my shoes, I hear a bath begin to run, not a shower. When I enter the room, she's sitting on the side of the bathtub, still clothed, staring at her feet. She used to get into funks like this a few months back. As the bath fills, I light candles and turn off the harsh overhead light. I miss her hands on me, my hands on her, but we undress ourselves. Even covered in dust and grime and sweat, she's still beautiful. When she undoes her braid and shakes her hair out, it's wavy. I slide into the hot water and exhale. It feels good, and this bath is big. She runs her fingers through the water as though she doesn't recognize it. I take her hand and she steps in, and lies back against me. My hands take hers, and I wind my fingers in and hold onto her so she doesn't float away from me.

"Would you go?" she says suddenly, catching me off guard. "If you were me?"

I think about this carefully before answering. "If I thought I could, then I would go. But I wouldn't promise for how long."

She's quiet for a minute again. The crease where her shoulder meets her neck, one of my favorite spots, shimmers in the flickering candlelight, and it's all I can do not to lean in, try to make us both forget all about it, reassure myself that she's here with me, not in the Capitol with Gale.

She surprises me a second time with her follow-up question. "If I go, will you go with me?"

I blink. I'd assumed she'd want to go alone, unless they'd invited me, and even then, that she might ask me not to, not the first time she sees him again in so long. I wouldn't have resisted. I can't stop her from doing what she needs to do, and I can't intervene, either. I even feel my hands tied on the issue of bringing us up at all, as I can't find a way to get the reassurance I need without threatening her independence. Katniss can be gentled into love, with time and patience, but she can't be pushed. But it turns out that I don't have to do either, because she's asking.

"If you want me," I tell her. The choice of words is deliberate. I don't say _need._

"I want you," she says. Her neck cranes around so she can look at me when she says it.

Now I ask, because I need to know. "Because you can't do it alone?"

"Because I don't want to," she says.

"Tell me again."

"I want you," she says, and it makes a tingle shoot down my spine. The words are loaded. Her mouth is hovering just below mine and I want to take it, have to take it, but one more thing slips out of my traitorous lips.

"Even though you'll be with Gale?"

"I'll be seeing Gale. I won't be with him," she says, and then I can't help it, and I cup her head in one hand as I lean down and kiss her, gently. She kisses back and I'm glad. I kiss her again. I can't help it. I stop myself from pushing it, though, and reach for the soap as she turns, to wash her hair. We shower off to finish, and I dry her hair and wrap her in a towel. I'm feeling protective, possessive, and she's letting me, probably because she's too mentally exhausted to fight it. When I look into the mirror, my face above her shoulder, I have only a minute to see us together and think how wonderful it is, my light features contrasting with her olive skin and that halo of long, dark hair.

I'm not surprised that she falls asleep quickly in my arms, because just the sight of that letter must seem exhausting, not even counting all the work her body did today, but I'm surprised that I do, too. My muscles still ache a little from the physical labor of the day, but our feet are wound together, and it's hard for me to remember the difficulties, when she's breathing deeply and quietly against me.

In the middle of the night, I feel a feathery touch against my collarbone, and I begin to drift towards the surface.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" I ask automatically, half-asleep, before I can even see anything in the dark. She doesn't answer. It takes me a bit to realize the feathers are kisses. The sky is still totally dark, which means we haven't slept for that long. The kisses trail down one side to the hollow in the center, which makes me shiver, and then up the other. She shifts lower and moves her warm mouth up the side of my neck, wanders to my ear, and kisses along the ridge. I'm fully awake by now. I groan softly and I feel my cock slowly begin to twitch up, hopeful. This only happens a few times a week, which is never enough for me, but more than I ever thought I'd get. Usually by the time it happens I'm pent-up, as now. I feel her hand stray and wrap around me as I get harder. I inhale sharply as she grips me, strokes steadily, slowly, the way I like. Her mouth finds mine in the dark and she bites my lower lip gently, sucks it in. I breathe her name into her mouth like a sigh. My hands slide down her back, over the soft curves that began to fill in once we came back, move down to cup her ass. Her hair tickles my chest as she nuzzles me, and I can feel her breathing me in. _Pheromones,_ I think dreamily, _that's what those are called._ It means the smell of a person, their body, without anything masking it. It's the way Katniss smells when our touchings and rubbings make her warm and wet and sweaty. It's how she tastes, too. It feels like a dream as she kisses down my chest, her lips following the subtle indentations of muscles and bones. Her teeth catch on a nipple and I groan. Her mouth finds me in the dark and my hands bury themselves in her hair. She balances on strong thighs to free her hands, stroking gently down my sides along my hips. She's slow, deliberate. I find myself pushing up into her mouth but she pulls back, teasingly. Sweat beads on my skin like dew as I struggle against that great crashing need for her, that need to consume and be consumed. Sex may yet become old hat to us, but as of now it's new, a novelty, and every touch is treated as though it might be the last.

She suckles at the crown of my cock, lapping up the steady drip and purring, and then slowly, inch by inch, takes me deeper into her mouth. I feel her mouth inching and it makes me dizzy, the amount of blood that rushes from my head and into that heat. And slowly, slowly, she passes where she's been before, I feel her take me deeper. Her throat constricts around me and I hold my breath so I don't thrust upwards. My heart stops when I feel her nose nuzzle against the blond down at the base of me. She stops and stays for a minute, and I move my hand to my mouth and bite down to keep from crying out. Then she draws back, moving back and forth, finding her rhythm. She won't let me come, though, and when she feels the muscles in my stomach begin to tremble beneath her hands, she withdraws. I can see my cock glistening in the tiny bit of light that filters through the curtains behind her. Before I can stop myself, I sit up, scoop her off her haunches with one arm, flip her under me, reach down. She's slick and hot and ready, pushing her hips up to meet me as my mouth crashes down on hers. My kisses are hot and openmouthed and desperate, forceful, possessive. We breathe through each other or not at all. Her hand locks behind my neck and keeps me tight to her. I can feel the strength in those archers' fingers, tugging at my hair. My fingers slide in all that wetness. Katniss can never hide her pleasure; it laughs at her attempts to be stoic. My fingers seek her entrance and I'm not disappointed. She gasps when I find my mark, push them in deep, curl them up the way she likes. She whispers her affirmation into my mouth. We're covered in sweat, and her tongue, like a cat's, comes up delicately and draws along my jawline, tasting the salt, letting it drip into her mouth. She groans. I can feel her nipples pushing against me between us, reach over and pinch one, hard, tug it out from her. She puts her hand under her own breast and offers it up to me herself as I lean down to use my teeth.

When I suck the tight little nub into my mouth and bite, it's not gently. I feel half-crazy with lust for her now that she's woken me and played with me and lain back for me to have all to myself. She mews a soft, satisfied sound and I know I'm still free to play rough. My mouth stays where it is as I pump her with my fingers, not hard the way she wants but slow, tantalizing, making her suffer as she made me. My other hand snakes up and caresses the back of her neck as she arches, eyes closed. Then my fingers find their place and I wrap a handful of that silky hair around my fingers and pull, hard, jerking her head back and holding her that way. She cries my name into the air and I move to her other breast, biting down, drawing roughly at it, making sure she'll be sore in the morning. In that moment I feel that fierce dominance that's not in my nature, the counterpart to her surrender. I want her to remember, in the morning, I want her body to remember. My hand moves from under her and she moans softly in protest. My fingers find her mouth and now that I know what she can take, I part her lips with them and push them in to the hilt. She sucks at them like she did my cock, working her tongue in between them. My eyes roll back in my head at the thought of where I am right now. As I rest atop her, she licks her lips and I can see her eyes shining, luminous and full of desire, up at me as I roll her nipple in my fingers again, using my fingernails. My cock is throbbing in earnest now, and it's settled between her thighs against all that wetness. I can't help but shift, see how it feels just to slide against her as we rub together, and the feeling is otherworldly, makes all else seem tawdry and cheap.

"Katniss," I pant, burying my face in her neck as her legs come up and wrap around the backs of my knees, "I'm ready. Please." In that moment, I do feel ready, or my body does, or I don't know. I can't tell. Nothing makes sense except this body under me, this lightning coiled in my belly. She reaches down and takes me in her hand again, and feels for herself, slowly rubbing just my head against her most sensitive places. She sighs softly. I can feel that she's trembling. We both are. If I could think, I would think this is the moment. _Shit,_ _I'll never last…_

"You're not ready," she says softly to my hair. Her words and her hand don't match and my brain can't process both at the same time. When I move my hand to hers and push them both down on my cock, lower…she says it again.

"You're not ready, Peeta." It's my name that gets me this time. I stop, panting, trying to focus. "What?"

"It's Gale," she says softly, and for a second I can almost feel my heart breaking, as I think that she's been thinking of Gale the whole time. But as soon as the thought comes, I can discard it, because I know her body, and I believe in my heart that it would have responded differently if she had been. That I would have felt the lack of familiarity. "What?" I ask again, dazed. She tips her mouth up to mine and coaxes it down. She's still loving me, even as she talks. "Mmm," she murmurs contentedly. I'm confused.

"You're reacting to Gale writing," she says. "But you don't have to. Don't you see?" I don't. I'm not ready? Only a few weeks ago, it was me telling her the same thing. I'm not hurt by it, but I'm bewildered, and my cock throbs painfully. Embarrassingly, I'm shifting around like a little kid who has to use the bathroom. Because I'm so tempted, so close, I shift off her.

"Finish first," she whispers, and her mouth moves over to my neck as her hand closes mine around my cock. I'm too keyed up to protest, though disappointment floods me. She moves my other hand to her, though, and I'm not coordinated enough to work both of us at once, but it must be better than nothing, because I feel her mouth stop and start on my neck the way it does when she's too turned on to focus. My orgasm quickens. As soon as she hears my breath hitch, she slides down beside me and in a flash, I'm coming, just as her lips move my fingers away and close around the head to catch it. My toes curl up as she drinks me in, making those soft sounds. The tip of her tongue probes at the tip, freeing the last droplets. I'm not sure I can think any clearer now, but as her head settles against my belly, I manage to get out, "Gale?"

"Yeah," she says. "But it's not him anymore. Maybe it was, once, but now it's not. And it won't be again." There's a flat finality in her voice that stands in rough contrast to the loving activities we've spent the past hour or so engaged in.

I don't need her to explain any further, because I feel ashamed at the thought. Katniss has seen into me, the way I see into her. The insecurity, the resentment, the possessiveness. She has seen all of me through her haze, I think, stunned.

"Was all that because of pity?" I ask, made even more insecure by the thought that she was trying to prove something to me with her body. She laughs for the first time all day. "Did it **feel** like pity?" she asks me back, and I can hear the note of teasing that relaxes me. I pull her up beside me. "God, Katniss…"

She kisses me, and it's tender, not desperate. "In good time," she says. "Someone told me that once."

"I love you," I whisper.

"I love you, too," she says back, matter-of-factly, and then puts her hand on the top of my head and in a rare show of bossiness in the bedroom, shoves me downward. "Now, make me come," she demands, and I laugh.

In the morning, when I wake up, she's sitting on the side of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, bare feet dangling. In her hands is the opened letter from my pocket. I sit up and encircle her in my arms, resting my chin on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" I ask.

She nods and extends the letter to me wordlessly. I take it. It's short and written in the same bold hand as the address, and oddly formal.

Dear Katniss,

I hope all is well with you in the district. Please send my regards to Peeta, Haymitch, Delly and the rest. My mother is well, and the kids are settling in here. They love the variety in the food—I see what you meant about Capitol food.

_That's telling,_ I think. _Not everyone in the Capitol is eating that good, not nowadays. _Gale's part of a special class, now. Ironic, in a way.

It continues:

They're going to school, actual school, learning about history and math and things, and there are some kids from the other districts who are teaching them so much. They told me to tell you hello. My mother has been able to get some much-needed rest here and is much healthier now than ever before.

I apologize for not writing sooner, but I thought perhaps it would be best if we took some time apart. I don't know if you'll ever be able to forgive me for my role in the events in the war, but I hope so. I hope you're finding peace. I miss your company. I can't remember the last time I saw a forest, and it's not the same, of course.

On behalf of the President and myself, I wanted to extend a request to you. We are hoping that you'll be able to come to the Capitol at your earliest convenience to reconnect with some of us, as well as be a part of a discussion on the continuous rebuilding that I'm sure you're aware of. The leadership team

_Leadership team?_ I think, scornfully. He sounds full of himself sometimes now.

…has been hoping that the Mockingjay would greet her people and wish them luck in rebuilding, just to boost morale. We know the people are wondering where you have gone and it would give them great joy to hear from you again. Personally, I was hoping we could talk for a little while and catch up. If you do not want to see me, I understand, but I'm still asking on behalf of the others that you make time to come be a part of the effort you helped create. They asked me, too, to pass along their greetings and hope for your wellness in 12. Please respond as soon as you are able, and of course, you are free to bring anyone along that you wish, and all will have accommodations here for as long as you choose to stay.

Thank you,

Gale

I hand it back to her and she folds it neatly, opens up the bedside drawer, and places it inside. She closes the drawer again and stretches, linking her hands together above her head. The sheet tumbles down below her breasts and my hands slide up to them, cupping around them as I kiss her bare shoulder. "Sore?" I ask.

She turns her head and smiles at me, and it displays just a hint of sorrow, intermingled with the love. "Yep," she confirms. I brush her hair aside and kiss the back of her neck. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

"No you're not," she says.

"No I'm not," I confirm.

"What now?"

"Now you come back to bed," I tell her, and wordlessly, she settles back down into my arms, though we're both awake now. I wait for her to speak. She plays with my hands, drawing the long artist's fingers out one by one.

"You," she says finally, "Haymitch. And Johanna. I'm not going alone."

I nod against her hair so she can feel it.

"And not right now. I need to get ready for it…in my head." Her voice is unreadable.

"Alright. Whatever you need."

"Want." She corrects me.

"Want," I say.

"You," she says, and rolls over to face me. When she moves my hand up slowly and stretches her own hands over her head against the pillows, I pin them gently down. She nods and I move to kiss her jawline. I don't know whether everything will change because of this visit or not, and I'm not particularly looking forward to it…in fact, I'm still afraid for both of us…but I'm comforted, too. She has comforted me, because when I look in her eyes, now, after the letter, after the ghost of Gale, after almost three years, I finally see no one reflected back at me but me.


	12. Out of the Woods

_I'm a fool for not seeing it coming in the first place, _I think when I set off the next morning for the woods. Peeta looks worried when he sees me sling my bow over one shoulder.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay out there?" he asks gently, and catches my hand as I turn to go. When I look down at him still swathed in a white sheet, stubble just beginning to come in glinting in the morning sunlight, perched on the edge of our bed…_our bed_, I think, _wow…_his eyes are so earnest. They're always so earnest. It's hard not to trust him. I should know. I've tried long enough.

I lean down and take his face in my hands. I can't help it. His hands come up and hold my wrists, and I kiss him good-bye for the day. I feel awful still, it's true, but I feel less awful than I would without him. Just the thought of him coming with me to the Capitol calms me, reassures me, all that steadiness.

I don't say anything but I try to put it in the moment. Going out today is something I have to do; I just feel it in my gut, even though he's right. It's illogical. Every move I make should be on some kind of continuum towards sanity, stability, normalcy. What I should be doing is going out on the crew again with him today. I liked it before. I might ask one of them if they could use an extra body, actually. But it's not what I need to do.

I know where I'm going before I leave and I've trodden the path so many times I do it without thinking about where I'm walking. I see game but I don't shoot anything. _What did you think, that you were done with them forever? When has anyone in power ever not tried to use you for something?_ And now Gale's one of the ones in power. I miss Gale terribly sometimes, but not the Gale that wrote. I want him back, sometimes, too, but not the Gale that wrote. What I want does not exist. Gale is the opposite of Peeta; I don't know what to believe. I can't read him anymore. The thought that he built the bombs that killed my little sister haunts me. I know he's not an evil person. I know that for years, he helped keep her alive. But it's not something you can forget.

_Are they ever going to just let me live my life? _No Victors get this wish. I've forgotten. That hasn't changed.

When I reach my destination, I lie down and curl up into a ball. My eyes close, but I don't sleep. I just lie, afraid, in Gale's and my hollow under the rocks.

I see his face fall when I don't come home with game that night. I've been gone all day, straight into the evening hours. I spent much of it trying to decide how much time I need before I can go. I have to get in contact with Johanna and arrange her coming. I have to talk to Haymitch. _Scratch that,_ I think. Peeta will already have done this by the time I get back, surely. Peeta keeps Haymitch in the loop far more consistently than I do, plus the nosy bastard has already deduced what's going on. As much as we clash since I came back, Haymitch, when it comes down to the wire, would not abandon either of us if he had a choice. I'm certain he'll feel similarly to me about it…by his standards, he has too many people around him **now**, much less in the Capitol. Even if it's illogical, I'm thinking of this in terms of sides. I need people that are on my side. Of course, the last thing is getting in contact with Gale himself. The thought of this is painful. The formality of the letter was like being stabbed. It felt so stilted and unnatural. And I didn't like some of the content, either. I wonder what Gale will do with all his power. He's unlike Peeta here, too: Peeta would never either want that power, or use it. I'm comparing them an awful lot in my head today, for some reason. I'll need at least a couple more weeks to accomplish all this. I wonder what Johanna will think. I remember what she said over dinner about my privilege coming with a cost, eventually. This was expected to her too, as it is to Haymitch. Little escapes her. Unlike me. It's still hard for me to focus, even after all this time. I miss things I would have seen before, even if no one notices but me. I'm hoping it's a temporary side-effect. At least I know she has a huge chip on her shoulder for them, like Haymitch and I. She laughed them out of the room when they offered her a government job. Johanna has an obvious talent for telling people to go to hell without wasting words.

On the walk home, I think about last night. I have sympathy for Peeta now, because stopping someone else when you want the same thing they do, and so much, takes considerable willpower. As it turns out, I know more about Peeta than either of us thought I did, because I could read his stream of thoughts from the second I walked into Haymitch's kitchen yesterday, as though I were clairvoyant. What I couldn't read was my own, because I didn't know until the moment he had stood away from me and I threw the letter between us that I had already chosen. All the time I'm learning new things about my feelings for Peeta, I think wryly. This has seemed to become an inevitability. Ironically, Peeta might be the healthiest thing in my entire life right now. It's a little hard to argue with. Something else I hadn't expected had happened, too: as time went on and we continued to remain so intimate physically, I stopped needing it, trying to lose myself in it. I began to, as I told him, want it instead. Want him. I stopped feeling driven into a choice by this ache and willingly let it carry me. All his love made mine, buried so deep now, want to come up to meet it.

With that uncommon possessiveness, which would ordinarily drive me away, I don't recoil, because I see the fear. He's afraid that I'll be gone, and he won't even say it aloud. I know this is because Peeta doesn't want to be the one influencing my decision. He will not, still, put his own feelings ahead of mine. My reaction to this mirrors his own; when I awake that night it's with a wild sense of possession that I might even have carried out of some dream. I feel a little guilty because as much as I halted Peeta for reacting to that letter, I did, too, with a need to stake a claim. I'm no longer a neutral country, I guess. The funny thing is, I didn't need to consider it much. I know his body like I know my own, and I sought it out not so much for the sex, but because I wanted to feel him so close to me, wanted to breathe into his mouth, feel his muscles contract under my hands and those soft curls against my cheeks. Only the reality that the sex, if we had it, would not really be about us stopped me from continuing.

I want him again today, after a long, painful day inside my head, the first and hardest one of building myself up to write the letters I need to write. But I stop by Haymitch's on the way home. It's just him, in his kitchen, with his nightly bottle of white liquor uncorked in front of him. I notice with some sense of relief that he hasn't gotten to much of it yet; he's obnoxious when he's drunk. When he sees me, he regards me shrewdly for a moment before I speak.

"Are you coming?" I dispense with the niceties immediately.

He swings his chair around to face me before he responds. "You know the answer to that. Although I have to say it, I think Effie would be disappointed. I'm not that excited, even for the food." He eyes the bottle.

"What do they want with me, Haymitch?"

He sighs and takes a swig. "They want a poster girl. The same thing they wanted before. They want someone who'll chirp about how well rebuilding is going and how thrilled she is with the new leadership. And they probably want you for logistical issues, too."

The first part is evident if nauseating. The second part, I would guess, is more complex.

"Logistics?" I ask.

"Yeah. They convicted most of Snow's regime recently, according to the talk in town. The leadership council are the ones who get to decide on the appropriate punishments. They'll want your opinion on that. Word is execution is the most popular right now. They'll want to solicit your report on what's going on here…'spect they have people who worked with them in every district giving reports back…and you'll probably have a forum to make requests or suggestions or whatever."

He takes another swig as I digest this.

"And there's one other thing."

"The Games," I say. He nods.

"They'll be beginning to deploy their planning team accordingly with the decision that was voted upon last year. I 'spect that part is going to be difficult. I don't think everyone feels the same way now that we've gotten some distance." I know he means me. He's not wrong about that, either. Maybe it's Peeta's influence, but I've lost my stomach for revenge.

"Alright. Do you think they'll want the same input from the rest of us?" I ask.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," he says grimly, "And I'm not any more thrilled with it than you are, but it's not unexpected. You know how the Capitol loves to interfere in the private lives of their Victors and turn them into public spectacles."

"This is a different Capitol," I remind him.

"All Capitols are the same," he sneers, taking yet another pull from the bottle. "One of these days you'll realize that."

"How come they didn't invite you directly, too?" This is a genuine curiosity to me; it would have made Gale's letter seem much less personal. Of course, there's a reason he wrote it and not the President. It's not just official business between he and I. But I'm surprised **someone** hasn't written to them too.

"They knew you wouldn't come alone, I imagine," he mutters. "Why would you? They know who you spend your time with."

"How do they know that?" I ask, bewildered.

He gives me a look similar to the one I get regularly from Johanna. It's the look that says, _did you fall off a turnip truck?_

"Do you think for one second they don't have allies in this district giving them information when they need it?" he asks. The immediate answer to this question is, of course, no. I was still so ridiculously unstable when they brought me back that it would have been logical for them to have surveillance, even. But it's probably very beneficial to them on a continuing basis, too. As Haymitch recognized in advance.

None of this makes me feel better, naturally, barring the answer to my original question.

"When?" he asks me. Because I was the one who was asked directly, I guess I'll be the one making that decision. I sketch out my time frame for him and he nods.

"How long do you think they'll want us to stay?" I ask.

"However long they want you to stay, only stay as long as you can," he says brusquely, "It's not your job anymore to make them look good. You have enough on your plate as it is." This, I know, is Haymitch's way of being protective. This is also the advice Peeta gave me, but what it comes down to is waiting it out, I guess. Something I'm notoriously bad at. I can't even anticipate right now how long I'll be able to stay before I begin to…what? What do they expect to happen to me?

_You did spend all day curled up in a hole,_ I think. It's not just the stress of returning to the Capitol, its very environment, clouded with deaths of people I love. Nor it is just returning to the stress of making consequential decisions…life and death decisions, if all goes as Haymitch expects…it's also personal. Because of Gale, of course. All of this is bound to compound the difficulty, I know. I'm reliant on my mental toughness to push through, and I don't expect it to fail, but I'd be a fool to walk into it oblivious to the reality that I didn't, in the end, come out feeling particularly stable last time. I'm not going to be able to go within five blocks of the place where my sister was killed, and their headquarters is near the mansion, so that should be interesting. The least I can do is make their lives difficult while I'm there, I think wryly. Haymitch has, for now, told me what I need to know. I nod to him a final time and turn to go home.

The first new spring plants are beginning to come up, even though the nights are still cold. Next time I go into the woods in a better state, I'll have to keep my eyes open. My options will soon become more bountiful. Peeta's crocuses are just rearing their heads outside our door. It's amazing that I've become to regard his house as ours. I rarely return to my own, now. All the things I need, which aren't many anyways, are here. And today, someone else besides us is here too, apparently. Buttercup is sitting on the stoop when I come up the path. He hisses when he sees me. I can't really begrudge him this, given our last adventure together. But neither am I going to apologize to a cat. I do feel a bit better though that he's returned, even if it's only for my sister's memory. I let him inside with me, and the scent of fresh bread wafts out to me, mixed with chocolate. It's a tempting smell. The house is warm and bright. When Peeta sticks his head out the kitchen door, one cheek smeared with flour, shaking his hair out of his eyes, he looks concerned. I drop my empty bag as his eyes flicker down to the cat, meowing plaintively even though he doesn't look any thinner. He knows how to hunt for himself.

I sense the questions in Peeta's eyes but I am not going to explain that I had a mini-breakdown and curled up in that hole all day. That's going to do nothing but make him worry, and he already is. My conspicuous lack of game is a giveaway even without the admission. Still, I'm glad the letter didn't come a few months ago, when I was still screaming in my sleep and wandering around in the dark, like the night Peeta found me and then we found each other in front of the fire. Gale…or whoever's running him…was wise enough to wait. I'd rejected their offers when I left 13, which would have been a clear message to them, I suppose.

I cross to Peeta and use the end of my sleeve to wipe the flour from his cheek. I know how to make him stop worrying, smooth the creases in his forehead. I hate to see him worry about me. He hasn't had one of his meltdowns in a long time, that I know of, but I suspect he hides his own issues sometimes for my sake, which he shouldn't have to do. Not now that I'm getting stronger, especially.

"I think I want to live with you," I tell him by way of greeting. "I mean, officially." The light that floods his eyes lets me know I guessed right. The creases smooth out and he looks hopeful instead of worried.

"Really?" he asks.

"Nah, I just thought it was something to say," I tease, despite myself. I'm smiling. It's hard not to, whenever I make him happy. "We already mostly are." By the time I make these decisions, they're largely practical anyways. My saying this is almost completely symbolic, since I have near nothing of importance in the other house and don't like it much anyways. This house is always filled with warmth…it emanates from the bread cooking, the fire in the hearth, Peeta. I feel safe here.

"What does that mean?" he asks, his brow furrowing again as he probably considers the same thing I just thought about.

"It means next time Gale writes me, we can let him know to write to #10," I say, before knowing I'm going to say it. I'm not sure if this is a dig at Gale, but it's also a mental shift, for me. I've never lived with anyone but my family before. But then, Peeta's the closest I have to family now in 12. He wraps his arms around me and links his hands at the small of my back, lying his cheek on my hair and breathing in. For a few minutes, he just holds me in the bright kitchen, and we stand together listening to each other's heartbeats. Then he pulls back to look at me, and he's smiling the smile I carry with me into all the darkness. I spent a year hoping that smile would return.

He leans down and kisses me, and when he lifts me up and perches me on the table, I know these kisses are baptismal. We are something else yet again, ever-shifting. The kisses he peppers my mouth and cheeks and neck and shoulders with are tender, intimate, and I feel us existing as different parts of one organism in all the quiet. I wrap my legs around his thighs and I can feel him pressing into me, hard and delicious. It makes me shiver. What I want is for him to lie me down right there on the table, covered in flour, and remind me of all his love, over and over. But it's not the time, I guess. I can already smell that he's going to lose his bread if he doesn't pay attention. I poke him gently. "Bread," I say. He blinks and it takes him a moment to return to the world. He groans comically when I push him away and goes to take the bread out.

There's something else in the oven that's a surprise. He's made brownies. My mouth waters when I see them. I ate berries today for the most part, and brownies are not a balanced dinner, but at the second they're all I want. I cross to the oven and inhale them. When he lies the pan out I poke it experimentally and begin to pick at the top. He brushes my hand away.

"You're going to burn yourself," he admonishes me. But when his back is turned I pick again in a rather astonishingly entitled way, as this makes them look terrible and unfit for consumption.

"Ouch," I say when I burn my fingers. He rolls his eyes.

"Just like a little kid. Eat some real food."

I've appropriated a knife and now I'm trying to cut into them without touching the pan. I ignore this directive because nothing much appeals to me at the moment besides this wafting chocolatey smell.

"It's your fault, you made them," I sniff. I sit on the table, eating. He comes back over and opens his mouth for a bite, giving in, and I pop one into his mouth.

"Not bad," he says. He kisses my temple. "I'd love it if you would live with me."

"Because you enjoy so much dealing with my temper tantrums," I state factually.

"Because I enjoy so much having you around," he replies. "And really, you should act more grateful. How many people tell you that?" He smirks. I wrinkle my nose at him.

"I keep calling it **our house** and **our bed**," I admit. He laughs. When I finish a couple of his brownies I sigh, because there's something I need to do and don't much want to, for the first time since we've been communicating. I need to write to Johanna. I have no doubt she'll respond to my call for help, kabar knives in hand, but it's nevertheless one I wish I didn't have to make. I wonder if she'll bring her dog. I hope so, and not just because it will make their lives difficult. Peeta takes some mending with him into the living room and sits by me as I stretch out in front of the fireplace to write. Thankfully, I guess, it's not a long letter. Anything else I have to say she can hear firsthand. Peeta sews buttons and cuffs back together with neat little stitches, which amuses me for some reason.

I suck on the end of my pen as I try to figure out what to write. Peeta puts his sewing aside and pushes my hair off my forehead. He tugs the ends gently and then moves his hands down to my sides, running them down the slight curve from my ribs to my hips. His fingers begin to wander under the old flannel I'm wearing. I smack one of them. "Stop," I say. "I have to concentrate."

"You always do that when you're thinking," he says, amused, watching me chew on the pen. I take it out of my mouth so as not to give him the satisfaction of being right too many times in one day. He slips his hand back up my side and turns me over so he can reach the rest of me. I sigh exasperatedly and prop my head up on my bent arm. "What do you want, exactly?"

"You know," he whispers conspiratorially. His hands are rough from working with the building crew, callused. He dips down and kisses my belly as he tugs the bottom of my shirt up. I get goosebumps everywhere and a jet of heat shoots down through me. He runs his nails down my side. He's really trying to get me now. I can't help but inhale sharply, but then I start laughing.

"Stop!" I whine, trying not to be turned on. I really want to just get this letter over with now. His hands are wandering around my back looking for the clasp he can undo with one hand in the dark, now. I know once he gets to it I'm a goner. I can feel the throbbing between my legs. We're going to have to do this about a thousand more times before it even remotely gets boring. _Making up for lost time,_ I think. Johanna's not wrong. 18 does seem a little advanced in age to not have given in to the hormones I thought I didn't have.

"Really?" he asks, and in a flash, I realize what Johanna meant when she advised me to come up with a word that means "stop" besides the actual word itself. Because I realize that not only am I not sure that I **really** want him to stop, I'm kind of curious to see what happens if he ignores me and takes what he wants anyways. That thought only makes it worse.

I give him a plaintive look. "Can I just finish this first? Or start it. Or whatever." I'm flustered. His fingers have hooked into my belt loops and pulled me tight to him. His open mouth is against my neck.

"Say pretty please," he says. He likes this game. He knows I wouldn't do it with anyone else.

"Pretty please," I say, batting my eyelashes at him and feigning innocence.

"Tell me I can have whatever I want once you're finished," he says. What he's doing now is what I was doing before…he's trying to distract me from this mess. It's working, too.

"No sex," I say. "Everything else." But this feels like it's a limited state, lately. For all intents and purposes, we've already been pretty much as intimate as we can get, so the actual act of sex is beginning to feel inevitable, and closer. I'm welcoming it. I'm glad we waited as long as we have, because I feel more confident now. He nuzzles my neck. I wrap my arms around his own and snuggle in closer.

"Tell me you love me," he says, and I hear just a tiny note of vulnerability there.

"I love you," I murmur into his ear, and kiss it. He exhales slowly as I reach to stroke his hair. "I want to live with you, don't I?" I feel him nod against me. He feels so good in my arms, I forget about the letter for a minute. I forget sometimes that this must have been hard on Peeta, all the uncertainty from my end about what I feel and what I'm going to do. He gives over his weight to me in this moment and for once, I'm there.

He lies in my arms for a little while, but he doesn't come on to me anymore for now. I'm disappointed and gladdened at the same time, because this is deeper. When he leans up and kisses my forehead, he moves away and I know I'm free to finish what I started. He picks up his sewing again, but somehow my writing seems easier now, because I'm thinking about the incentive of finishing it. I stick the end of the pen back in my mouth again and Peeta's mouth twitches. Then I begin.

Dear Johanna,

I hope you got home safe. I wish I wasn't writing about this, but I'm sure you won't be surprised in the least. I recently received word from Gale that the Capitol is requesting my return for some time. I have no idea how much of it is him, personally, and how much is the higher-ups, but Haymitch is guessing that a lot of it has to do with the trials ending and the questions about continuing the Games later this year. I'm planning to acquiesce under the conditions that I can bring you, Haymitch and Peeta along with me, which they've indicated won't be problematic, and that I only stay as long as I feel able. I don't feel prepared to go alone—I don't feel prepared to go at all—but my feeling is it might be better to get it over with now. I don't expect that they'll take a no forever.

So, of course, I'm writing to ask if you'd like to come along—or if you wouldn't **like **to, if you'll come along anyways so we can hate it simultaneously. I have no idea if they'll let Mutt tag along or not, but I'M inviting him now, since I'm the Mockingjay and all.

…This is sarcasm, but she'll know that…

My time frame is within the next few weeks. Please write me and let me know if you'll come and what arrangements we can make for travel. I could use all the support I can get—you know how they are. Gale's motives are unreadable. Peeta, predictably, got anxious about his presence in any form, but somewhere along the line I realized that it stopped being about Gale at all, and I told Peeta so. I think we're okay now. But I'm still dreading it, and my nerves are coming back again. I wish they'd just leave us alone, but I guess that will just make you laugh.

Hope I hear from you soon,

Katniss

I find myself revealing more than I expected to in this letter. But I'm only answering the questions Johanna will have anyways—she'll know that that letter will have a definitive impact on my mental state and by extension, Peeta's. The rest of the details I can fill in in person when I see her again. I proofread quickly, then fold the letter neatly. I'll mail it in the morning. Given the unreliable state of the mail, it might even take the week to reach her, and then I have to wait for a response. But I can respond to Gale simultaneously, and tell him that I'm still making arrangements with Johanna, but that I'll come given my conditions. I could call both of them, I know, but I'm stalling for time. But I'm not writing Gale tonight. I need to space out my mental stress and I've had enough of it today. I feel drained just writing this short note. When Peeta sees me finish, he stands and stretches his arms above his head. "I mended those pants," his says, tossing them over to me. Peeta cooks, cleans and sews my stuff back together. And never complains about any of it. I wonder what I do besides what I want to do anyways. I wonder if he likes doing all those things.

"Do you like cooking and cleaning up and fixing stuff?" I ask curiously.

"I don't mind," he says. "I did it at home anyways. If things need to get done, I don't think it really matters who does it."

"Should I be doing more?" I ask guiltily. I don't know how this living-together thing works. It feels stiflingly domestic for a second, asking. But Peeta only smiles.

"You do what you like to do," he says. "Hey, speaking of that, Luceid asked me today if you'd be interested to have a place on the crew, or one of the other ones. They have plenty of room on all the rebuilding crews. It'd give you a change of pace." I can tell he approves of this idea. _So would my shrink,_ I think. My shrink is big on reminding me how I'm going to downward spiral unless I'm busy all the time. He doesn't know, either, that I stopped taking my medication in the past few months. I went down on it slowly, but I refuse to take it forever. I don't want to become dependent on something external to function. I hate taking pills, after being so doped up in 13 half the time. One of the things that surprised me was their willingness to rely so completely on medication. Growing up, we had to carefully mete out the medications we had for emergencies. Even at her lowest, my mother never took anything, and she should have, even I'll say that much.

"Tell him yes," I say, without having to think about it. This is something that I've already been considering. "Have him put me wherever they need people; I don't mind."

He moves to me and kisses the top of my head. "Good. That's good. I think that'll help."

"I'm done for the night," I announce. And then I laugh, because he scoops me up like I weigh nothing at all. Our bed awaits us warming it up. **Our **bed, for the first official night. I wonder if Peeta is thinking this too. He's kissing me as he carries me up the stairs and it's clear he can't do both at the same time. "Stop!" I berate him, into his mouth. He's grinning. "You're going to drop me!" He feigns dropping me and I yelp. But we manage to stagger up the stairs and he drops me on the bed and then jumps next to me.

That's the first night I let Peeta tie my hands to the top of our bed. Within an hour I'm begging. After the first hour he lets my hands free and ties my ankles to the other end. Within two I can't remember my own name. He never lets me come that night, no matter how much I beg and plead. I can feel the waves of energy and hunger that roll out from him as he plays with me. When he decides he's ready, he works himself to orgasm, sliding into my waiting mouth just as he finishes. Our sheets are so soaked they're transparent by the time he comes up next to me, and I'm shaking. He folds me up in his arms and cuddles me, like an apology, but he's plainly enjoying my suffering, which only serves to make me want him more.

"Don't worry," he says, "Next time I'll make you come over and over to make up for it." He's grinning wickedly.

"You'll…make me?" I breathe. I'm still trying to catch my breath. I don't know how I'm going to think straight with all this pent-up energy. I'm kind of praying that he takes pity on me soon.

"Yep," he says. Then he pauses. "You're…okay with all this, right? I haven't asked that in a long time. It still feels a little strange sometimes."

I'm completely limp on top of the cooling sheets, and I know I need to get up and change them in a second because underneath my squirming, plaintive need there's complete exhaustion, but I smile. "Johanna approves," I get out.

"That's because Johanna's into this stuff," he snickers. I blink and my head swivels. Apparently this was not confided in secret just to me. "Hey, imagine if we teamed…"

"Don't EVEN think about it," I say. _Who are these perverts?_ I think, amused.

But because the question merits a serious answer, I answer it seriously. "If I'm uncomfortable, then we'll talk about it, but I've been okay so far. It's so nice not to have to make decisions for like six hours a week," I say fervently. This is absolute truth. I have no idea what the roots of this interest are, or if it indicates something psychological…I bet my shrink has some medication that will rid me of it…but I don't really care, either. I never had anything to measure the sex Peeta and I have against, so I have no idea what the spectrum of normalcy is. So far, two other people besides me, that I know of, are completely okay with it, and they're both people I trust, so that's about as far as my thinking on the matter goes. Peeta looks relieved.

I pull out some new sheets and Peeta shakes them out. By the time we climb in together, my lust is cooling. By the time he wraps me up in the blanket and pulls me into him, I'm yawning. Tomorrow is the harder part, but it's not tomorrow. I keep reminding myself over and over that I can only manage each day as it comes. And each one is getting a little easier, or I'm getting a little better each day, or both. Even the bad ones now are not even close to what a bad day would have looked like four months ago. The last little flickering thought I have is not a thought at all, just a tiny flame of hope. That one day, maybe I'll even get to something resembling normalcy. I hope. I hope.


	13. Full Moon Rises

When I find her, she's covered in sweat, an ineffectual navy blue bandanna that must be borrowed from some member of her crew tied around her forehead. It's a warm day for late March, and she works only in a t-shirt and denim pants that are slung low around her hips. Her hair is done up messily in a knot at the back of her head. I've brought her lunch today, and it hangs in my hand in a pail at my side—bread and cheese, hardboiled eggs, cold tea—but I linger at the edges of her construction site for awhile, just watching. I think Katniss is beautiful at any moment, but there is a particular sense of strength and confidence about her when she's working. They put her on a crew shortly after I mentioned it to her last week and she acquiesced. It was immediately evident that this was a good decision. She's one of few women on the crews and it doesn't seem to bother her at all—she can keep up just fine after all those years of running around, fighting in the Games, hunting. Even as I watch the muscles in her upper arms are visible as she swings a sledge, knocking old chunks of stone out of the blasted-out walls of what once was the tailor's storefront. They asked her if she wanted to pick a crew, but she'd only shrugged.

"Same purpose," she'd pointed out astutely.

It's true, the majority of the crews have the same basic purpose—to demolish ruins that can't be saved and erect new buildings, or else to repair those that can be repaired. She's on a crew with Delly's oldest brother, who's just barely fifteen but solidly built, like Delly. Her foreman's name is Fabius and his neck is as thick as a tree, his head like a great stone perched on top of it. He towers over us both, but he has a heart of gold. I know he's looking out for her, and I suspect he's also giving solicited updates on her progress to Haymitch—taciturn ones, since this would, of course, piss her off to be monitored in another fashion, even though Haymitch has her best interests at heart.

She pauses midswing to swipe the back of one arm over her dripping forehead, and that's when she spots me hanging around and gaping. She smiles and immediately it brings a smile to my own face. I see her turn to her foreman and ask something, and he nods and puts a hand on her shoulder. She smiles again and then she's swinging down off the long wall, by far the most graceful member of the team. Her moves are always fluid, painted in broad strokes, deliberate. She has a way of moving that makes her stand out amongst others. I admire it as she walks over to me. I lean in to kiss her and she wrinkles her nose and ducks me.

"I must smell awful," she says. "It's hot."

"I don't mind. You're working hard," I say. She nods.

"It was a good choice," she replies. "It feels good to be helping out." Behind these words, I know, is the residual guilt that she feels for what she sees as her part in the bombing, even after all these months. She doesn't really talk about it, but one night a few weeks ago I awoke to hear her talking in her sleep.

"I'm sorry," she moaned, "I didn't know! I didn't mean it!" When I woke her, she did not remember talking, and I didn't remind her. We've resigned ourselves somewhat to the reality that the nightmares may never end, though they're better with company.

I hand over the pail to her and she takes a peek. Another thing I like about her working now is that her appetite has become more consistent; before it was a toss-up whether she'd eat much each day. Sometimes she did, and sometimes not. But now, her eyes light up when she sees the eggs. "Thanks," she says gratefully. I sneak a kiss on her cheek before she can protest.

"Do you have some time to sit?" I ask her, and she nods. There's a park near here that remarkably, came out unscathed from the rubble. We wander over to it and Katniss flops down in the grass without a second thought under a big old oak tree. Strands of dark hair are working loose from her hasty bun and they drift in a light breeze. She sighs.

"That feels good," she says as she begins to pull food out. She offers me a slice of my bread, cranberries and nuts today, but I shake my head. I picked at it as I baked this morning. Not without irony, the upcoming Capitol trek has my stomach twisted into knots, though not for the original reasons. The bottom dropped straight out of my stomach right after Gale's letter came, and even after she moved in, even after the night that she reaffirmed our existence as a duo, it took several days before the anxiety in my belly began to abate. But now it comes and goes, out of anticipation. I don't know what to expect; can't even deduce much from the past, because so much has changed. We've had good reasons to keep our distance, and among them is the fact that even simple things still seem challenging sometimes—sleeping, eating, even showering, for Johanna. Complexities have seemed impossibly daunting, but what we're going to have to do now is walk a delicate balance. Primarily, what **Katniss** is going to have to do now. Still, the Capitol wants things of all of us, and they may be things we don't want to give or do, totally separate from the facts that I'm returning to the scene of my torture—a thought that constricts my throat when I let it linger too long—and Katniss, her sister's death. Totally separate from the fact that she and I are presenting ourselves as a truly united pair for the first real time since we left 13, and the accompanying tension that will be sure to rise because of it. Oddly, I feel comforted by the fact that Johanna will be there, even though she's about half as tall as I am and can't weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

It only took her a few days to write back after Katniss sent her letter. She sounded about as enthusiastic as any of us to go back, even though she assured Katniss that any opportunity to spend time with us is appreciated, but she didn't hesitate in her affirmation that of course, she'd be there with us. I admire her for that, because she neither has to go nor necessarily should. I'm sure her doctors are throwing a fit, but Johanna will walk if that's what it takes—her iron will is outstripped only by her stubbornness. I saw the relief pour into Katniss' eyes when she read the returning letter, scrawled in a crooked half-script hand, and I know what it said without her having to tell me. She's bringing her dog. The same train that will take Katniss, Haymitch and I will pick her up on the way too, so we'll be presenting a united front coming in. Our date is still tentative, and Katniss has to confirm it with her on the phone once she receives Gale's letter back, but it's looking like we'll be shipping out sometime at the end of next week.

Katniss is quiet while she eats and I wonder if these are the thoughts that are encroaching on her, too. It feels like a heavy hand pressing down on us some days, especially when we're not working or curled together at night. "Penny for your thoughts?" I ask her, plucking out blades of grass absentmindedly and shredding them. She raises one eyebrow at me.

"Yeah, I know," I sigh. We've improved at this sort of communication, the kind that doesn't need to be spelled out, over time. But it doesn't take clairvoyance to guess what's in her head today. Her letter to Gale went out over a week ago. His reply is due back any day now, and she's restless and tense. At night it takes her a long time to sleep, and when she does, it's fitful, even if we make love beforehand. This makes me sad and angry, too—both of our sleep was improving for awhile after she began spending more time with me over the winter. _All this was inevitable_, I remind myself over and over. Haymitch and Johanna both have said as much. We can't run from past or future forever. Maybe it's a good thing to just get it over with—or it would be if, in my heart, I could believe that this visit will be the last of it. One of my bigger fears is that they'll expect it to spark further visits, pressure her into it. At least they'll have a tougher time of it with the rest of us there holding our ground. On the train I'm going to suggest a caucus between the four of us before we reach the Capitol, if it doesn't unfold organically. We don't know how much uninterrupted private time—if any—we'll have to talk. If Haymitch is right, we haven't ever really escaped surveillance from the Capitol, not even now. There's no telling exactly what they know or who is feeding them information, no way to tell if we'll even have a secure place to talk on the train, which may well be monitored, too. Just the thought of all this interference makes me itch. Sometimes, I think resentfully, it does seem hard to tell where the old Capitol ends and this one begins. They still treat Katniss like she's a circus act. I'm sure they'll even appropriate our genuine love for one another as evidence of some point they already want to push, like that we're all completely recovered, which will make them the second regime in my lifetime to do so. I wonder at what point in time will we be free to just live our lives out in peace. No cameras. No watchdogs. No spies. No interference from the Capitol and their little minions. _Gale._ The thought streaks through my mind so fast I hardly even catch it. Katniss is talking.

"Sorry, what?" I ask. She looks reproachful but it vanishes quickly. She knows that I, too, am having difficulty focusing on everything that isn't this upcoming trip.

"I said, Haymitch is drawing up a battle plan," she says around a mouthful of food, with a touch of irony in her voice.

"A battle plan?" I ask, still tugging myself back into the moment.

"Yeah. A strategy, or something. He was a little vague on the details. I think it's the whole united-front thing."

Unsurprisingly, Haymitch's thoughts have outstripped mine; call it a 25+ year advantage of being a Victor. Certainly this will not be a controversial idea. What else are we doing besides assembling a united front already?

"When do we get to hear all about it?"

"You know Haymitch," she says. "He'll figure that out, when he's ready. I think he's playing it kinda close right now until he can work it out for himself." She looks sad for a minute, uncharacteristically so for a conversation about Haymitch. "You know, the other day I caught him watching the old Games tapes again. Raving drunk, of course. I shut it off and he pitched a fit about how they can't be trusted. But I only got to hear about half of it before he passed out."

"I've seen them on in there, too," I say resignedly. "I wonder why he does that?"

"Therapy," she says wryly, and with a touch of bitterness. "It's not like we can stop him. But he makes me worry…" She trails off. She's gnawing on the corner of her mouth, another thing she does when she's thinking or stressed, like chewing pens. The skin on her lips looks raggedy and chapped, patchy. I reach out my hand and run my thumb over her lips, and she winces. Sore, too. She stops worrying them for a minute.

"Worry what?" I prompt gently.

"Worry…that we'll never get over it." Her eyes are sad and soft and frightened. "I mean, it's been how many years? …And he's still stuck on it. It's stolen everything about who he is. We don't even know what he would have been like without the Games. He'll never be the same person."

I react to the last part before I work my way back to the first.

"Katniss, none of us will ever be the same people as we were before all this. Not even Delly and the ones who were never **in** the Games. Especially not us. I'd probably never even have talked to you if they'd never picked us."

This causes a small smile, which is a start.

"But Haymitch also chose this," I say, as gently as I can, because I know how cruel these words sound, even to me. They're ones I've considered for a long time, weighing the truth of them inside my head. "He could give it up, but he's doing what he feels he needs to do. We're free to choose, too. So is Johanna. Do you think she's gone forever?"

She immediately shakes her head. The distilled essence of Johanna's personality might be less gone than any of us. Johanna grew harder, tougher, more ruthless, through all of this, but she was never** not** Johanna, as far as I can figure. Strong, clever, funny, independent, skeptical, resourceful. She, too, relies on drugs, but she's become increasingly self-aware about it since the days when she used to unhook our IVs in 13. After she got clean for military training, she never went back to relying on what she absolutely doesn't have to. She takes more than us, but as much as we've been through—surviving the Games, surviving their aftermath, surviving the war and the torture—she's been through **two** rounds of it, both of them directly in the Games. None of the rest of us can claim that. Katniss and I didn't have enough time after our first Games to really feel the extent of Snow's wrath the way the others did. Johanna's been through most of the aspects of what Haymitch, Katniss and I have **all **been through, just by herself.

"Plus, there are two of us," I tell her, and she nods. "We're lucky, Katniss. How many people that lived through this ended up with someone that could really say they knew how it felt?" The answer to that is, of course, none. Just us. I see her visibly relax as the thought hits home. I lean in and kiss her lightly, just once, closed-mouthed. She brushes my hair back from my eyes.

"Thanks for the lunch," she says sincerely. "I really should get back, but I get off at 4, so I'll head back then."

"Okay," I say. "I'm going to work on some things around home and I'll make us something to eat. Chicken sound good?" Even my mouth waters a little as I say it. The chickens were store-bought, of course. When we get back home, I'm planning to begin acquiring us some of our own. Tonight I have some I can fry up with potatoes.

"Sure!" she says, and re-ties her hair as she straightens. She kisses me once more, and I see her smile as she turns to head back to work. I sling the empty pail over the crook of one arm and, as the sun slowly begins to creep west, turn for home.

As a matter of habit, on my way up towards our house, when I pass Katniss' mailbox, I open it up reflexively to check. And there is one thin, white, square reality that I don't want to face, staring blankly back at me. If the first one brought on a flood of resentment and fear, this one brings on a flood of unexpected defiance. It takes me a moment to place the source. In its newness, Katniss has of yet not informed Gale of her change in living quarters. Or maybe she's even deliberately held that information from him, wanting to save it for our meeting in person. But seeing that letter sitting solitary in the disused mailbox, at the end of the flagstone path that so rarely sees our steps these days, unlike the well-trod one up to my front door, inside which hang my jacket and Katniss', together, gives me a flare of righteous anger and satisfaction. This is one thing their spies don't know, or haven't deigned to share with Gale. In that moment, I'm not afraid of the hand I know will stare up to me when I pluck it out. Because, as I pointed out to Katniss, we are together. Not just she and I, but all of us. Four Victors, and none of us having won by accident except, perhaps, me.

But of course, the hand is there, and of course it's his, but there's nothing I can do with that but wait, since it's not mine to open. I place it carefully against the salt and pepper on the table and busy myself with cooking. The tasks that Katniss finds so tedious and frustrating are comforting to me in their repetition—kneading bread, sweeping floors, mending, washing dishes. I begin to make breadcrumbs with old bread and herbs, roll chicken in eggs, fry it up. The smell of thick grease and sizzling herbs fills the small space. The cat comes over to _waooooooow_ against my ankles. I break off little pieces and throw them to him, since Katniss isn't around. I boil potatoes with dill and cream. By the time the front door opens, dinner is well on its way to completion and the kitchen looks okay, too, since I'm cleaning as I cook. Buttercup disappears around the corner without a trace, having been satiated. She's whistling, and as I turn, drying my hands on a cloth, she appears in the doorway, grimed from nose to toes. The corner of my mouth twitches. She's completely indistinguishable from a boy except for her physical size and those delicate features. My fingers ache to bury themselves in her hair, but I know she won't settle in for dinner without a much-needed shower. She makes it partway through a wave before her eyes, of course, alight on that small square of white that seems to sap all the color from the room around it. She doesn't have that still, shocked look that the last one brought, but one of dogged resignation. _We've adjusted nicely_, I think cynically. But the fact can't be left unrealized; we all **have** rallied rather quickly in light of the initial information—Haymitch is planning, Katniss and I are strengthening our alliance with one another, and Johanna, of course, has moved with both speed and grit. But then, I guess, if we were an easy group of people to intimidate, we wouldn't have made it this far to start with.

She crosses the kitchen in her socks and flips a chair around with one smooth movement to lie her arms across the back—looking uncommonly like Haymitch, who sits similarly, as she retrieves the envelope. Unlike last time, there's no waiting period—she tears it open and pulls out a single sheet bearing only one long paragraph. I lean by the sink and wait, watching her eyes. She reads fast, and I see them harden the further down she gets—steeling herself, rather literally, given their color. When she finishes it, she tosses it onto the table amongst the breadcrumbs and rests her chin on her crossed arms.

"Guess that's settled," she says finally. I make a motion towards the letter and she waves me on. I retrieve it and read:

Katniss,

_Didn't take him long to dispense with the "dear," did it?_

Of course we have expected that you might want to bring along company and have anticipated such in our planning, so by all means, Haymitch, Johanna and Peeta are welcome to join you. We may have some difficulty finding quarters for Johanna's dog, but since you have insisted, we will do the best we can. I have also indicated to the others that among your conditions is that we find you temporary housing that is separate from our base of operations and leadership housing. President Paylor is not thrilled with this; we prefer to have you all in the safest space we can procure which is, naturally, close to the site of the previous President's living quarters, however, again, at your insistence, suitable arrangements will be made by the time you arrive. We will have them ready for you by the 12th of April

…this is next Wednesday…

so you will be welcome to join us at any time after that date. Please do call to confirm when you are arriving; we are anticipating you by the end of next week. Among other things, to answer your questions, we will be planning strategic meetings to assess the viability of having a 76th Hunger Games, as well as to discuss disciplinary hearings for the former Ministers and Chiefs of Staff. President Paylor has requested that you make yoursel(ves) available to speak with the people of Panem through televised spots and interviews or those that can be recorded to play at later dates; though she acknowledges that she does not have the capacity to force your hands in this matter, she has encouraged me to strenuously encourage you to do so in order to aid us in rallying the peoples' spirit and creating support for our new efforts.

_What a practiced politician he's becoming_, I think snidely, before I can help it.

Lastly, I am aware that you have stressed, as a part of your conditions for coming, that you cannot guarantee a return date, however, we strongly encourage you to consider the fact that many important matters must be discussed and this may be time-consuming. However, again, we must acquiesce to your request and will therefore be as flexible as possible in our procedures during your stay. Thank you. Please keep me informed, and I will be seeing you soon.

Gale

The cool tone of this letter reflects her response, I know, which I saw before it went out. It was little more than a list of statements and conditions with very little personal touch.

"It helps me," she told me at the time, "To keep it at a distance for now. This isn't really about he and I…not the nuts and bolts of it."

The coolness also belies his resentment at being bossed around, though, I know. Haymitch had particularly encouraged Katniss to be assertive from the beginning in her response, not that she needed much pushing. "Better to start out that way," he'd growled. "Come out swinging, you know." The reality is, they can't force Katniss to do anything without making a giant public scene and creating a lot of hassle for themselves; the most they can do is ask. And if she has conditions, and they want her bad enough…which they clearly do…all they can do is acquiesce, no matter how inconvenient or ill-thought those demands are. Katniss had developed her conditions very quickly after her letter to Johanna went out: room for all of us, including Johanna's dog, away from the center Capitol, and freedom to come and go as we pleased, including to return home. She'd also made clear that she was not committing to any one specific role; that the outcome of her visit would be determined by herself with the implied support of us. They're in a tricky position, because the four of us, particularly Katniss and I, are beloved in a way that they aren't. One of the more pleasant consequences of being a national revolutionary whose much-touted romance was, in the end, perfectly timed. No one has needed the pick-me-up of true love more than they have since the war. Paylor may deal with her resentment over this with more grace, but like Coin, she nevertheless must feel the screws turning on her to strike a conciliatory balance with us. Katniss' letter wasn't hostile, exactly, but it was deliberately uncompromising. No doubt it set the tone for what they're expecting when we arrive.

Katniss' eyes look far away again, and she's chewing the end of her braid thoughtfully. I place the letter carefully back on the table and then whirl to catch the chicken, which is hissing ominously in its grease, before I lose this batch. I pull them just in time and shut off the stove. Plates are already laid out. The smell of the food must draw Katniss back in, because she shakes her head as if to clear it and then looks up to me.

"Do I have time to shower first?" She asks. Her voice is steady and I'm glad. There is none of the drama that came with the first, unexpected letter. Her eyes are a little unreadable, though. I lean down and kiss her forehead.

"You had better, you smell terrible," I tell her. This isn't really true, but she whacks my shoulder in mock outrage.

"You know, you don't have to get near enough me to smell me at all," she sniffs. I smile.

"Go ahead," I tell her. "Do you want to show this to Haymitch tonight?" She mulls this over, but then shakes her head. "It can wait until tomorrow. Things are settled. There's not much to debate now, really. I'll confirm with him and Johanna, and I guess we should begin to pack." She sighs. Not that there's much for us to pack.

She turns and leaves the kitchen but the letter lies face up on the table, staring back at me with its detachment. There is Gale, so high-and-mighty, begrudgingly informing us that yes, even though we're such a pain in the ass for asking, he **guesses** they can arrange living somewhere outside the center Capitol. As if he were the one who watched his sibling burn to death. As if he were the one who couldn't step onto each paving stone without thinking about the maze of chambers and tunnels where the man who saved his life was killed in the most horrifying way possible, where he was caught and tortured and hijacked. For Gale, the Capitol is those last few hours fighting our way through, but that is all it will ever be, all the trauma that will ever come to mind. I'm angry with him; angry enough to have words, even, and for once, they're not over Katniss. I'm angry at the sense of entitlement that makes even this letter sound like he's doing **us **a favor. I'm angry because we have a right to own our pain, and no one has a right to take it away from us, minimize it, pretend it doesn't exist. I'm angry because, like Haymitch, I already see the patterns that stretch from Capitol to Capitol. I know Katniss voted yes to the Games, but if I had to suspect, that vote is going to change. Other than hunting, she's lost any bloodlust she might ever have had, as the past slowly recedes. I don't think she has the stomach to stand up now and condemn other kids to yet more death. She leads a quiet life here, one that seems to suit her, helping rebuild the place that was our home, accepting the love of those who will give it. I know I could be happy here for the rest of my life, rebuilding our town and our friends and each other, maybe even having children one day, not that this is something I could mention to Katniss. We don't ask for much.

Katniss' shower is fast; while I'm lost in my thoughts, picking tiny bits of breading off a chicken wing on my plate, she's come down the stairs, wrapped in a faded yellow cotton robe that's too big for her; the sleeves far over her hands. Her hair is damp and unbound and falls in a sheet past her shoulders. "That's so much better," she exhales. Even from where I'm sitting, I can smell her shampoo. "I'm starving," she announces, and crosses to the stove to dish up food. Before she reaches it, I catch her hand and she turns, looking impatient.

"Just a second," I implore her, but now she rarely ever tells me no. She willingly steps over into my arms and perches on my good leg as I wrap them around her and pull her in. I bury my face into her damp hair, breathing in those good smells of shampoo and warm sun-kissed skin. I speak into her hair. "Grow it out more," I whisper. She laughs.

"Like yours?" She asks me, and runs her fingers through my waves. They fall to my own shoulders now, so long I have to tie them back for the first time in my life when I cook. I kept growing them when I realized they tantalized Katniss, back when hers was still singed off. She couldn't keep her hands out of my hair, teasing me as she braided little braids into it, brushing it sometimes after we showered, bury her hands deep in it when we make love. I shiver a little thinking of that, and she must feel it, because she leans in and kisses me gently. It has the feeling of one that could be opened up if I wanted to, but I don't, since she should eat after working all day—me too, since I haven't, much. I pull back and kiss her nose lightly.

"Come eat," I say, and shift her up so that I can fetch us chicken and potatoes. She positively wolfs it, which is nice to watch. I make a mental note to carry some over to Haymitch afterwards; maybe it will tempt him into eating. I even manage to eat some myself. In a way, I'm glad the letter came today, one more step towards getting this over with. I'm glad that we're handling it with even some sense of grace. _It could be a lot worse_, I think. If it weren't all of us, together. If we weren't Victors, and strong.

Katniss washes dishes while I make a quick trip to Haymitch's. He's mostly passed out on the couch, but I leave the food in the fridge with a note, and I'm glad at least to see that he's not watching those stupid Games tapes again. I add in the note that we've received Gale's response and we'll keep him in the loop tomorrow. Haymitch approves of the fact that Katniss is living with me now—so much so that he hasn't taken the opportunity to rib her about it, for which I'm glad. It's better to tread lightly; head off her periodic fits of uncertainty and self-doubt, fear and temper. When I return, the lights are turned down on the lower floor already, and when I climb the stairs to our bedroom I find her sitting up, her arms around her knees, wearing a long old t-shirt, the sheet wrapped around her hips as she stares at the rising moon.

"Full moon," she says quietly, watching the enormous bulk of it hover, flooding our yard with light. In 12, the superstitious, like Sae, believe that full moons are fortuitous, that they bring good fortune when they rise. Though I don't believe it, nothing can possibly hurt at this point, so I'm glad to see it. I undress and carefully detach my leg, which is a little sore today and which I'm glad to be rid of. I lie it on the nightstand and crawl up next to her. I sit beside her and wrap my arms around her as we watch it together. It's stars that you're told to make wishes on, as little kids, but this time I figure no one but me will know if I make a wish on a moon instead. So I send one more thought out into the universe and wish on the silver orb in the sky that no harm will come to us in the tasks we need to fulfill in the next few weeks. That we'll make it through unscathed and be able to come home, together, and return to this life here, so simple but filled with love. The moon, of course, is inscrutable, gives away nothing. It fills Katniss' eyes and reflects back from them, turning them silver instead of grey. I cup one breast gently in my hand and kiss the sweet spot where her shoulder meets her neck. Her skin is almost unbearably soft. She makes a tiny sound, and then turns to look at me.

"Are you okay?" She asks me. Her hand strays up and she cups my face, stroking my stubbled cheek with one thumb. I nod. I'm preoccupied; I can't say this hasn't affected me and I know she doesn't expect that it hasn't—how could it not?—but I feel like myself, yet. The comfort of her beside me is like a warm ocean lapping all around me. And I know I will defend her, once we get to where they're waiting. We are growing together at the same time as we are growing up.

"You should make a wish," I whisper in her ear. She smiles. 

"I already did," she says, "Do you think it will come true, on a moon?"

"Maybe just this once," I say. "What did you wish for?" I know that she won't tell me.

"If I tell you, it won't come true," she says, still smiling. Katniss' secret heart exists only for her, as it should. It is as wild and free as the wind. But as she leans up and kisses me, as those chapped lips I love meet mine with all the lightness of flower petals drifting down, I hope that she's included me in it. Somewhere inside, I believe that she did.

"Maybe I'll show you, though," she says, in a teasing voice. She snuggles down into the covers, beckoning me, making her best come-hither face, and I'm still laughing when she throws the blankets up and over our heads. The silver moonlight lights them for us, and underneath them, of course, we light each other.


	14. The United Front

Chapter 14:

"It's official," Katniss announces, flinging the letter down on top of Haymitch, who is snoring on his filthy couch. He starts.

"Whuzzat?" He grunts, his hand on his knife.

"Get up," she says impatiently, prodding his thigh with the toe of her boot. I have the fleeting hope that he doesn't decide to pin it to the couch out of disorientation. His eyes fly open and they look wild at first. I wonder if he's always trapped in some bad dream; if he ever gets any restful sleep at all. When he sees it's us, he groans and closes his eyes.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" he mumbles.

"Yeah. It's 11." I tell him reproachfully.

"That's exactly what I mean," he mumbles, but does force himself up with some effort, causing the letter to tumble to the floor. Katniss and I stand and wait. I notice with some amusement that we both have our arms crossed. When he sees the letter fall, he bends to pick it up and squints trying to make it out in his hungover state. It takes him longer than it should to read, but I'm patient. Katniss is never patient.

"Hurry up," she snaps. "We need to know what the plan is."

"Plan," Haymitch almost chortles. "Let's see. Don't give an inch, and get out as soon as possible." This much is obvious to all of us, and consequently unhelpful. I also find it highly unlikely that there's not going to have to be some kind of compromise, regarding his first point, in order to accomplish the second. The longer we battle it out, the longer we'll have to stay around, I reason. I'd rather compromise on some points if we can. But I inwardly groan, because I happen to be going in with three people who not only distrust the Capitol as much or more than I do, but are intractably unwilling to back down given a conflict. Johanna and Katniss are both stubborn and Johanna's sarcasm is so acidic it can probably melt walls.

Katniss is incensed. "That's not good enough!" She snarls. Haymitch laughs cynically at her for a minute, but then, seeing her obvious frustration, he caves and his face grows more serious. "We present a united front." His lip curls up in a half-sneer. "Which means, sweetheart, that you better put your temper on ice for awhile."

"Can you elaborate?" I ask diplomatically.

He nods. "I don't think we should get too in-depth until Johanna's here, though. In fact, it might be simpler to agree on a few points and keep it at that, and not go too in-depth at all. Things are likely to happen rapidly and maybe unexpectedly. These people are not politicians by accident. They know what they're getting themselves into, inviting us there. It might be polite, it might be cordial, it might even be appealing…" He can't disguise his look of contempt at the word, though… "But we're there for a reason. We're there because **they need good publicity**. We're there because they can't move ahead on major decisions like execution without at least **explaining** why their Mockingjay hasn't been a part of the scene at all." This is a lot of words for Haymitch. I realize he must have been devoting a substantial amount of time already to all this.

"So what do we do about all that?" Katniss asks pointedly.

"We'll nail down some major points on the train, but let's remember that we'll probably need to flex, too. And also…" Haymitch's face grows serious. "Take care of each other," he says. Katniss and I are very still.

"And not just each other, Johanna too. You'll need each other."

"What about you?" I ask reflexively. He shakes his head. "I'll be okay," he says. I can't help but notice that he looks away from us when he says it.

The week moves too fast. Katniss confirms by phone the date with Johanna and Gale. Katniss has never gotten used to the phone line, and doesn't particularly seem to like using it if she can help it, even under the best of circumstances, which this isn't. I'm not eavesdropping, but since there's only one phone in my house and it's located on the bottom floor, it's hard not to overhear. Katniss' sentences are short and clipped, right to the point. Our train will come in the morning of the coming Wednesday. It will pick up the three of us, move towards Johanna's district to scoop her up, and proceed straight into the Capitol. There's no avoiding that we'll have to face the station, but they've managed to put us up in what used to be a boardinghouse for travelers in another neighborhood of the Capitol—one that we didn't have to run through on our nightmarish final trip to Snow's mansion. It's not within sight of their HQ or the mansion. We'll each have our own rooms. Notably, Katniss doesn't mention to Gale on the phone that she and I will be sharing one. But I wait on that. They've invited us to a welcome dinner the night we arrive, and meetings will start the next day. Problematically, their major technological bases, the control rooms in which they usually meet, are located too far into the city for Katniss' liking. It doesn't sound as though this has been resolved, from what I catch. The conversation is short. I'm assuming the finer points will be worked out once we arrive.

She at least laughs once or twice when talking to Johanna. Johanna's so animated I can hear her voice pouring through to Katniss' ear periodically even without being in the room. I feel a surge of gratitude that she's rising to the occasion. Katniss hands over the phone to me at the end for only a moment.

"Peeta, you ready?" Her roguish voice inquires.

"Ready as I'm going to get," I respond.

"That's what's up," she says, and the line goes dead.

We notify our work crews about our impending absence, and as anticipated, they don't look surprised or put-out by the news. In fact, they wish us luck. We tell Delly, who has agreed to keep an eye on Buttercup, and we tell Greasy Sae and the few that monitor us on a semi-regular basis. Word spreads fast, and in the last couple of days I find random people watching me sympathetically, or coming up to clasp my hand. Many of these are people we've known for years, people that are on our side, people that have at least tried to understand what the two of us have gone through. We've long since noticed the approving looks that follow when we're together in public. Whatever Katniss thinks about her guilts or flaws, these people don't share it.

The last night before we go, Katniss has hauled out her old leather bag, the one that was once her father's, and begun to scan her scant drawers for anything she might want to bring along. She spent that day in the woods, and she didn't even pretend to hunt, as far as I know. I've never heard Katniss use the word "meditate"—she'd probably hate it—but I've come to understand that my worry over her going into the woods will have to be replaced with some kind of acceptance. She seeks out what she knows. She seeks out her father. She reconnects with the things that she was away from for so long. Katniss needs her space—even if she can never get away from herself, she needs to get away from the world. I've noticed that when she's gone all day, she seems even gladder to see me at the end of it, if sometimes sapped of energy. That day she looks particularly tired coming in, but not shaken, not unhappy the way she used to so often.

We pack together. Being as how all my possessions were destroyed in the bombing, I have no choice but to resort to one of the brand-new, expensive looking valises that someone had stocked our hall closet with. It feels unnatural, stiff and with that new-cloth smell, but it'll do fine for what I need it for. We pack side by side in silence, throwing in some sleeping clothes and our usual cadre of denim pants, flannel shirts. We know they'll have clothes for us once we get there, but it's equally important that we bring our own. Capitol clothes will always be Capitol clothes. At the last minute, Katniss includes one of her more formal dresses from Cinna—a light-blue number that crosses under her breasts and ties in the back. The fabric is impossibly soft. I almost hope they'll be some kind of occasion for her to wear it, because I can only imagine how lovely it would look on her. I haven't seen her dressed up in ages.

Katniss refuses to leave her weapons behind, even though I can't imagine where she would wear them. With much persuasion from both Haymitch and I, she reluctantly packs her Mockingjay outfit, which was returned to pristine after the bombing by a team assembled for that sole purpose. I feel terrible persuading her because I know how sick she must be of the outfit and all its connotations, but it's likely they'd prefer her to bring it, even if she doesn't agree to wear it. She handles it as though it were made of glass, touching it as little as possible as she adds it to my valise, since hers won't fit it. Hopefully, I throw a handful of condoms in mine when she's not looking.

It's pathetic how little we actually have to pack. Katniss and I haven't really needed many possessions to have a happy life here—not even that many clothes. Growing up in 12 left the indelible impression on all of us that we don't need that much to survive, and experiencing the excesses of the Capitol left us even more averse to accumulating any kind of unnecessary trappings. I stare at our quilt longingly and wish I could bring it along, think how much comfort we'd garner from it, but it's unrealistic. I satisfy myself with the thought that we'll appreciate it that much more once we're back.

Our dinner that night is simple, designed to use up the remainder of the perishable foods that hang around the kitchen—bread, milk, cheese, some early greens that Katniss has been collecting in her woods. Simple but good. We're both lost in our own thoughts. I'd invited Haymitch to come along, but he merely grunted.

"I'll be seeing enough of your lovely faces over the next few days," he said.

It's better this way. When I lean in to kiss Katniss' cheek, she closes her eyes and I see the dark circles just forming underneath them. I know that both of our sleep has gotten restless, but the familiarity of them twists my stomach a little. I haven't looked at myself in awhile, but I suspect I might have them too. I yearn for this to be over. _The first trip is going to be the hardest, _I think. _At least next time we'll have some idea of where we are._

We go to bed early that night. There's nothing left to prepare; our things stand by the door. There's no use dwelling on it, thinking about it constantly. When Katniss undresses and the waves of her hair spill across the pillow as she lies down, my hands want to find her body in the dark, make her breath come heavy, encourage those tiny sounds she makes, make her forget, make both of us forget. But I hold back. She's clearly tired and it might be better if I give her a chance to sleep. She curls her tiny form into my arms, but I don't feel her drop off, accompanied by the deep, even breaths that usually signal deep sleep. I don't speak, just in case, but I'm sure she's not sleeping.

Surprisingly, I'm the one who drifts off first. But not for long.

When I wake up, the first thing I see is the moonlight filling Katniss' eyes like pools. Her eyes are wide, like the eyes of some watchful forest creature. I'm drenched in sweat. I feel cold all over. My leg is tangled in the blankets and I'm struggling frantically to free it. I feel disoriented, my heart is pounding, and I'm anxious the second I come to, before I even know where I am. I can see Katniss' lips moving but I can't seem to hear anything. _Am I deaf?_ I think, panicked. I try to focus on her mouth, see what's coming out. My hands grip her shoulders hard and as soon as I realize, I drop them immediately, ashamed.

She pushes my sweaty bangs back from my head. "**Peeta!**" she says insistently. "Peeta, it's okay. You're safe. It's okay. It's okay." As soon as I let her shoulders go, she immediately shames me even more by pulling me in close to her, pulling my sweaty face down to her chest, stroking my hair. I don't want to touch her because I'm afraid of hurting her, terrified that I already have, but she gently pries one of my hands free and guides it around her. After that, I hang on tightly. I need something to anchor me back to this world as the room slowly comes into focus. I'm not deaf. I can hear just fine.

"It's okay," she whispers to me, rocking me gently. "It's not real. Not real. It's not real, baby." It's the first time I've ever heard her call me anything but my name, and this, more than anything else, is what calms me down and brings me back. This is my Katniss. Not the Katniss in my dreams. Not the mutt. That's not real.

"Do you remember what happened?" she asks softly, once she realizes I'm calming down. She kisses my hair over and over.

"Yeah," I say. My eyes are still downcast. I'm afraid I might burst into tears if I look up to her. I'm angry with myself for losing it again when I've been doing so well. I'm angry that I couldn't stave it off to let her get the sleep she needs. Mostly, I'm angry that I probably hurt her again. "I don't want to…I don't want to talk about it though."

She nods. She knows enough…she's heard enough…about my nightmares and my disassociations that she can deduce. I know she knows she was the mutt haunting the back of my mind again. She doesn't take it personally anymore, though.

"Are you hurt?" I can barely bring myself to ask the question. I force my eyes to meet hers and predictably, I can feel my lip shaking. "I'm so sorry, I…"

"It's NOT your fault," she says immediately. "No. It wasn't that hard, Peeta."

I force the next question out, and it makes bile rise in my throat. "Will you bruise?" This is something I'd rather ask now than confront in the morning.

She hesitates, and I know the answer. "….Yeah. Maybe. But I'm not hurt, Peeta. I was hurt way worse many times, you know that. **It's not your fault**." She emphasizes the last four words, slowly. I cling on to the hope that maybe this is true, that I didn't mean it. My heartbeat slows and I lean in to plant one shaky kiss on her forehead.

"I should probably sleep in the other bedroom," I say.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps. "I wouldn't let you do that."

Despite all this chaos and the emotions flooding into me, I have the space for one amazed thought to arise through this: _Things really have changed._

When, still trembling, I'm persuaded to lie down again, Katniss moves behind me instead of to her normal place in front. I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, she rests her lips against the soft place at the back of my neck and slides her arms under mine, pulling me in close. I surrender without a second thought, and let her hold me. It's only this, I know, that lets me, after a long time lying awake, sleep again. Like before, I know Katniss is still awake when I begin to slide.

In the morning my eyes are barely open before I'm apologizing. Katniss waves them away, pulls me in for a tender, lingering kiss. It has the desired effect. I cup her face in my hands, looking away from the delicate purple shading coming in on her shoulders, and whisper to her, still sounding like an apology, "I love you."

"I know," she whispers back, kissing me once more. It's still early, so for awhile, we just lie in our bed, dreading the day to come, our noses touching as my fingers find the downy hairs at her temple and smooth them back again and again, our feet entwined under the covers.

Later in the day, after a quick breakfast, Haymitch, haul bag slung over his shoulder, greets us at the station. I can hear the bottles inside clanking when he moves, which makes me smirk. I wonder if he's even added any clothing to the mix, or if it's just the essentials. Katniss is holding my hand tightly, for me or for her, I can't tell. The Peacekeepers herd us respectfully onto the waiting train, and when the three of us walk abreast into the main room, I can almost feel our collective shoulders relax. This is not the same train they used to collect the Tributes during the Games, or to ferry us to the different districts on our tour. In my cynicism, I even wonder if they explicitly ensured that it was not that train, fearing that we'd see it and immediately about-face off it. This train is also simpler, with more discreet trappings—though no less nice—than the overwrought finery Effie was so fond of. She never made it out—or, we've never heard anything about her, so we assume she didn't. I feel sorry about that. Effie, for all her affectations and ignorance, never truly meant us harm, and sometimes wished us well.

Haymitch, predictably, retreats to his room, though not before snagging a couple of bottles of various brightly-colored liquors propped on the sideboard of the dining room. "I'll be back when Johanna comes," he mumbles.

Though Katniss and I are assigned separate compartments, they're arranged adjacently to each other and a door connects them, which we swing open. Whoever's designed this is savvy enough about the realities of our life now, unsurprisingly perhaps given the ruse that we spent so much time maintaining during our celebrity period. We dump our things on the floor, but then merely look at one another. Lunch isn't for another few hours, and Johanna won't be picked up until after that. The train is almost eerily silent—wherever the attendants are, they're not making their presence known. The bed in my room is almost identical to the one we shared the first times we ever shared a bed at all, on the train heading towards our second Games. I look at it, lost in memories. The very first night Katniss shocked me by finding me in my room and without a word, sliding into bed with me. When I look down at her, I know she's remembering.

"Remember?" she asks me, as though on cue. I nod.

"Yeah," she says, as though I've asked a question, and then she reaches for me, tugs the hem of my shirt over my head, stretches up to kiss my collarbone. I pick her up and she smiles as I carry her over and lie her down. The beds could never be complained about; they're divine. I lie beside her and she leans into me, resting her head on my chest. This time I feel her drop off, and I'm humbled by the trust she must have grown for me in order for her to acquiesce to her exhaustion, even after what happened last night. The love I feel for her rises into my throat, and I tighten my arms gently around her sleeping form. We've come an awful long way. The rocking of the train must soothe me in some way, because before I know it, there's a respectful knock on the door, and when I regretfully stir Katniss awake and move to open it, an attendant, dressed in pale green with straight, even chestnut hair, greets me politely.

"Miss Johanna Mason will be boarding, soon, Sir," she says. It's so disconcerting to find an attendant that isn't an Avox and can speak, that I'm momentarily thrown. I shut my mouth in embarrassment a moment later. I resolve to remember to ask Paylor about this; about the new attendants and where the Avoxes have gone. I'm hopeful that they've been given a free selection of jobs now and that this is representative of the fact that they've chosen not to fulfill this task anymore.

"Call me Peeta, please," I ask her, as politely as I can manage. "Thank you very much." She smiles and bows her head and turns to, I can imagine, attend to Johanna's room. Katniss is sitting up and yawning.

"She wasn't an Avox," she notes, too. "That's interesting."

"I thought so too," I tell her. "Nice, though. I always felt so weird not being able to talk to them. It's so dehumanizing." This is grim, because of course, this was the point.

"Johanna's here?" she asks, still a little groggy. Our clothes are rumpled all over the place, not that Johanna will notice. I tug on my shirt. "Soon," I say.

We make our way out to the dining car, and to my surprise, we reach it just as the car begins to slow and see a full buffet lunch set out.

"Excuse me," I ask the attending server, "Please, I thought that we missed lunch by now. We were supposed to be picking Johanna up afterwards?"

This server is a young man, with close-cropped hair that includes a variety of beautiful patterns shaved into it. His eyeliner is pink but otherwise, he doesn't resemble, for instance, the members of our prep team. He's dressed in an identical green outfit to the girl, but the fabric, upon closer inspection, is carefully sewn and looks expensive. He looks healthy, too, and it's clear they're being treated well. He smiles to me.

"You and Miss Everdeen and Mr. Abernathy were asleep, Mr. Mellark," he says. "We decided it would be best to wait until you had awakened to serve."

_Mr. Mellark?_ I think. _Lord._ Katniss' eyebrows are raised. We'd been pandered to in the Capitol, but that could be another lifetime, it feels like so long ago. 

"Thank you very much. And it's Peeta, please," I say. "Are we in District 7?"

"Yes, Sir, we are approaching their depot at the moment," he responds. I give up on the monikers for now. Katniss is peering around him out the window as the train slows. I take her hand and we walk on through the hallway towards the Peacekeepers who wait by the sliding door to greet Johanna. Slowly, we glide to a halt. There is a pause and I wonder where Haymitch is, if it's likely that he'll show up for lunch at all. Then suddenly, the electronic door begins to recede with a whoosh. The first thing I hear is Johanna saying, carelessly, "Well, that's not MY fault. They know he's coming."

Her dog beats her onto the train, and I see the Peacekeepers look slightly taken aback as he begins backing them against the walls, sniffing their white uniforms excitedly. Just behind him, Johanna herself bounds into view, hair sticking up in all directions, battered valise slung carelessly over one shoulder. I look down to Katniss and see her smiling.

"HEY!" Johanna greets us, and flings her arms around Katniss. Katniss laughs. Johanna, eyes glinting mischievously, pulls back and then plants a kiss on her, full on the mouth. I see the shock come into Katniss' eyes, and I know perfectly well that this reaction was undoubtedly the one Johanna anticipated with glee. I start laughing. I can't help it. Shaking her head as if to clear it, Katniss raises one eyebrow.

"It's good to see you too, Johanna," she manages. Mutt is wagging his tail so hard I feel it may fall off as the train door whooshes shut again and with a slight shudder, we begin to move. He's all over Katniss now, licking her hands as she tries to pet him, shaking yellow fur on everything. I wonder how the Capitol will like their train once he's done with it.

"Peeta, oy!" she greets me, and I ruffle her hair as she leans in to hug me. I hug her tightly. "Hey," I say, still smiling, "How are you doing?"

"I'm chipper," she announces, passing off her valise to the nearest Peacekeeper without giving him a second glance. "Where's Haymitch?"

"Sleeping?" I wager.

"We can't have that, now, can we?" she snorts, her eyes glinting again. She wriggles her eyebrows up and down at Katniss and I shake my head as they look conspiratorially at one another. We all head back towards the dining room, but it's only me who collects a plate from the buffet when we reach it. The girls stop.

"Aren't you coming?" Johanna calls over her shoulder.

"I think you've got it," I tell her, sliding up a metal lid to the marvelous smell of bacon beneath. She smirks and they move away.

_One. Two. Three._ I count.

Right on cue.

"HAYMITCH!" Johanna's voice makes the attendant jump, booming amplified through the narrow corridor. Katniss is giggling. The sound, so young, is gladdening. One of the things I like about Johanna is that her messing around with people so often makes Katniss laugh. "WHAT THE HELL? IT'S RUDE NOT TO GREET YOUR GUESTS, YOU KNOW!" She's being loud enough to break glass. I can almost feel the vibrations from her fist banging on the door of his compartment.

_Jesus Christ_, I think, _She'll be lucky if he doesn't come out swinging and disembowel her._

Katniss is laughing even harder as I hear the click of the lock swinging open. Haymitch's voice is almost whiny, and despite myself, I begin laughing too.

"**Johanna**," he says reproachfully, like a parent, "Why don't you yell a little louder? I think there are people in 3 who didn't hear you." He sounds like she definitely woke him up. He has a soft spot for Johanna, though. I know it's hard for her to make him angry.

"Sorry," she says in a stage whisper. And then we're all laughing. It feels wonderful.

Over lunch, a vast variety of cheese, puddings, whole roasted chickens stuffed with lemons, poached and scrambled and hard-boiled eggs, great bowls of fruit (heaven only knows where they got this so early in the season, but none of us are complaining…we consume about six bowls of berries together), and on and on, we talk strategy. I feel a little lazy in comparison to Haymitch and Johanna, who seem to have already come up with questions for us to all vote on regarding the expected variety of topics that might arise. Johanna's dog lies at her feet looking thrilled as we all throw him bits of food in turn.

"Executions," begins Johanna summarily.

"Yes," says Katniss immediately.

"Dissenters?" Johanna asks. Even I am not going to come up against this. I know there are some complete pacifists, even among Victors, who would reason that it is never okay to take another human life, not even, and perhaps especially, if sanctioned by a government, but all of us are too battle-hardened. All I remember of those who held me prisoner in the Capitol are voices, body shapes, blurred silhouettes, but if they can track down who was responsible, I will not deny that I wish them dead.

Haymitch and I nod together. "Who?" Haymitch asks. This is a harder question, both because we don't know who they'll ask us about, and because here is where we begin to draw lines between who deserves death and who deserves imprisonment.

I begin, but slowly. "All those directly involved in sanctioning or carrying out inappropriate punishments to District citizens, including torture, mutilation"…I'm thinking of the Avoxes… "murder, or murder by neglect. Head Peacekeepers not exempt." Here I'm thinking of Thread's heartlessness.

Johanna adds her thoughts to the mix. "Gamemakers, too. Past and present, who are still alive. And all high-ranking government officials who didn't come out explicitly against Snow. Ministers, Department Heads, and military Generals."

"They were carrying out orders," says Haymitch neutrally, devil's advocating.

"It doesn't matter," says Katniss. "The actions were the same. Fair and just imprisonment where prisoners **were not** abused, that's fine. Minor punishments like fines and reprimands, fine. No torture, no death. That's not too much to ask from a government." Her voice is already rising, and I lie one hand reassuringly on her knee, which is bouncing up and down.

"Everyone subject to a trial by full court," I say. "Judge and jury recommendations need to be taken and passed on to us. Our opinions should be weighted with the theirs, maybe one-third each, or something else equitable." I see approval on the faces around me at this.

"Acceptable?" Johanna asks. We nod. "And…" she adds, "Are our consciences okay with suggesting that people be put to death?"

Katniss nods, surprisingly savagely. Haymitch nods. I hesitate a fraction of a second, and then nod. If the people, the court and us can all agree to put someone to death, I have faith that we're making the right choice. Johanna nods too.

"Okay," says Haymitch, moving in as smoothly as though they'd orchestrated this in advance. "Resolutions we want to advise them to make a part of the code of law?"

"I move we table that until we hear from them what is being put in place and what they're considering," says Johanna. "We have no real information about that except what we get through the television, and I'd rather hear it straight from them."

"Dissenters?" Haymitch asks. We shake our heads.

"Okay," he says. I'm shocked by how fast he and Johanna move through this.

"Now," he says. We know what's coming. "76th Hunger Games." This is not a question, just a phrase that drops like a rock through the air. I am silent on this matter. I know that I'm the only one who really should be. I voted no all along, and I'm not about to change my vote now. Executing those who were directly responsible for carrying out atrocities is one thing. They were adults who made their own decisions, same as the rest of us. Executing their children is not something I'm prepared to do. Children aren't responsible for atrocities, and they can be taught to do better than those who raised them. But all three of the others who sit around the table with me had voted in the affirmative when asked this same question months ago.

"Paylor might not even make this an issue," Johanna says, "That was Coin's idea, not hers." This is true, even if Gale had alluded to the fact that this wasn't definitive.

"But," Haymitch counters, "It's better to know now what we're going to say and have it not be an issue than the other way." Johanna nods in such a way that I know she was devil's advocating, like Haymitch. _They should run the country,_ I marvel.

"Katniss?" Johanna asks. Her eyes are even and hold neither her own opinion nor any judgment for ours, but she holds them levelly to Katniss'. Katniss meets them for a minute, but then looks down at her lap. I suspect that she feels ashamed of disappointing Johanna in this, but I still know what her response will be.

"I can't condone it," Katniss says, quietly. "I'm too far away from it now, and from the anger. I have no problem paying them back for every drop of our blood that they spilled, those unimaginable bastards, but not their kids. That's just perpetuating the same damn thing that we lost everybody trying to eradicate. Could you really watch another Games on television, more kids killing each other?" She's raised her eyes to meet Johanna's again.

"Yes," says Johanna without hesitation. "Snow did what he did the way he did it for a reason. It gets to people much deeper when you kill their children than it does if you just kill them. We're doing them a mercy by executing them. We should let the parents and friends of the Tributes who died pull them apart like packs of mutts." The humor has dropped from her voice entirely; it is flat and murderously angry.

"You don't mean that," I say.

"The hell I don't," she replies.

"Do you really want us to make our decisions based on what Snow would have done?" I ask.

"It was effective, wasn't it?" she sneers. "I didn't say we should do it forever, I said we should do it one last time to give them their grand finale. Imagine, after watching that they'd be begging us to execute them." There's pleasure in her voice underneath the anger, and I have to remind myself that this Johanna, the Johanna that's suffered so many and had so many die, the Johanna whose full story we've never even heard, is a part of the Johanna we love. She's not even being particularly irrational. This was, after all, the vote that carried the day the first time around: yes. They deserved it. But it'll never be me who has the heart to say it.

"Okay, Katniss. You and Peeta vote no. Johanna says yes. Is that right?" Haymitch asks neutrally. The three of us nod. "Can you respect each other's opinions?" he asks.

"Yes," Katniss and I say in unison. Johanna nods again. We're friends, and this won't change that. But all three of us look expectantly towards Haymitch, and he sighs.

Haymitch speaks carefully, and he looks only at Johanna when he does. Neither Katniss nor I can wipe the surprise off our faces in time when he speaks, though, so this is probably for the best.

"Johanna, I feel everything you're saying," he says, and his tone makes me believe it without a doubt. "And I understand completely. It's hard…" His voice falters, the only time in recent memory that I remember it doing so. He clears his throat. "It's hard to make decisions about things like this, and I hope that we won't need to."

"But." Johanna says.

"But, I was loyal to the Mockingjay as a symbol of resistance and community. And I remain loyal to her now. I feel that personally, I have to stand with her in her choices, that we have to create as much of a united front around her that we can, especially now."

Only then does he turn to look at Katniss. Her eyes are soft.

"Because I have to believe that you will do what's right, irrespective of government, the way you always have, by making your choices independent of their plans and with the best interests of those around you in mind." This is, maybe, the nicest thing Haymitch has ever said to Katniss.

It also lays a burden of responsibility on her, but it's one she's shouldered many times before. I remember her risking her life to feed her family. I remember her risking her life to save me in the first Games, in the second Games. I remember her risking her life in the war, many, many times, to bring hope and comfort, to build a better life for all of us, to defeat a relentless enemy. I remember her stance against blowing up the Nut in 2 and condemning innocent people to death, things I was told about only after I recovered my strength and sanity. However gruff and stubborn and difficult she may be, whatever shell she tries to put up, however hard she tries to maintain it, Katniss has fought for those she loves, for justice, for peace, as hard as anyone could ever have expected to fight, to the bitter end, when she slew a President she knew would replace dangerous policies with other, equally dangerous and irresponsible policies. Haymitch is not placing his faith blindly. He must truly believe that she knows what's right. There is no higher compliment.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

Haymitch turns back to Johanna. It's a mark of the strength that defines her, what happens next. "Can you accept that, Johanna?"

"Yes," she says, and nods, almost gently, to us, as though to assure us that she loves us still. "But I can't agree with it, here or anywhere else. Can you understand that?" She speaks to all of us, but Katniss is the first to answer.

"Yes," she says simply. Haymitch and I nod.

"Is that going to be problematic?" I ask apprehensively. We are, after all, talking about a united front.

"Not if we present it with the greatest respect we have for each other," Haymitch says, "I don't think that will be a problem. It might even teach them something." We all smile.

A server appears at the side of the table to take away our plates, but before she reaches for them—this one wears an identical uniform but has shocking, bright, long curly red hair—she announces quietly, "Excuse me, sirs and misses, but we will be approaching the Capitol shortly." This train has been faster than the old ones, I note. They must be acting in all haste to reel us in before we can change our minds. We thank her.

"Two more things," says Haymitch. "We should plan a time each day to meet and talk things over and make decisions together. And despite differences in opinions, I think we should make it clear to the others in words and actions that we are acting as a team and looking out for one another. There's strength in numbers. As I tried to tell you once, Katniss." He smirks.

Katniss can't muster annoyance though, after what he's said to her, so she merely rolls her eyes halfheartedly. I smile at her.

We set a time for the next day to coalesce just as the first walls and towers of the Capitol begin to roll by the windows. I turn away. I don't need to see any more of it than I have to. We all rise to return to our compartments and dress. Just before Katniss and I turn the corner, Haymitch looks back.

"One last thing, Katniss," he says. She stops. "Start thinking about what you're going to say and do when they ask you to shoot propos. Because they will." He looks a little grim. But she only nods and turns back again. As we both change into something cleaner and less wrinkled and Katniss re-braids her hair, I realize that my hands are shaking, and press them together in hopes of stopping it. I take a deep breath, and as Katniss steps into my arms and hugs me, the train slows to a halt.

"Are you okay?" I ask her, holding her tightly to me. I feel her head move…up, down…against my chest.

"Are you?" she queries. I suspect she feels as far removed from okay as I do answering this question, but for the sake of the other, we both answer the same way. And so I nod. She leans up on her toes and my mouth meets hers halfway. The kiss lasts a long time, and by the end, I'm grateful that my hands have stopped shaking. I kiss her nose, her forehead.

"I'm here for you," I say.

"I know," she says. She takes my hand and we step out into the hall. Johanna, leash in hand, is waiting for us. In the dining room, Haymitch meets us, and the four of us, just as planned, line up in front of the doors. And when they open, all four of us, side by side, step out into the waiting light, and the waiting chaos.


	15. In Which the Deal Is

_***Now, now, I have to say, readers, I'm suspecting that many of you will skip first to the end of this one. I encourage you to be patient and read straight through (though, I mean, how would **I **know about skipping to the end of a fanfic chapter?)! …But, if you absolutely MUST skip ahead, at least admit it in a review. ;)_

"I know one way to make it feel like our bed," I announce.

But first…

"Sealed," Peeta mutters, annoyed, as he stares at the fireplace in our bedroom. It's decorative. This is not surprising in the slightest. People from the Capitol have other ways of obtaining heat and ways of cooking food. Now we do, too, but the comfort of our fire at home never fails to soothe me. I drop my one bag, the same leather one I've had since my father died, unceremoniously on the floor beside it. The room favors the Capitol's stark, bright décor, with a sunken platform bed that looks as big as a raft…I can't imagine why a room meant for one would harbor such a bed…a nightstand with what I can only assume is a lamp, and a wardrobe. And of course, the requisite television set hanging on the wall. It is predictably dark. When I open the wardrobe curiously, it contains any number of outfits. But they don't appeal to me. They lack Cinna's delicate, focused effort and elegance. I can change my shirt, at least. When I shrug out of my wrinkled flannel and am standing in my bra, reaching for the simplest black shirt I can find, I feel Peeta's hands slide around my waist and pull me in. He kisses my hair, then my neck, my shoulder. I lean my head back and close my eyes.

"It feels weird to have people around," he says. "I think I've gotten used to our privacy." He sighs. I know how he feels. Everything feels like infringement. I relish just this one little moment of peace between plans, the way he must. The air is thick with anticipation and it feels stifling, like it's cramming itself down our throats. The blinds covering the windows are slanted, and I'm glad that I can't see what's outside, can't see the Capitol, can have just one place for Peeta and I.

"Guess your clothes are in your room," I tell him. I can feel his cheek move as he must smile.

"Guess I'll have to go back and get them," he says. He was pleased when I broke the news that we wouldn't be requiring another room to Gale. Gale's face went very still for a moment, and though he was quick to extinguishing his look of resignation, it flickered there for just a whisper. But it lacked surprise….certainly Peeta and I cannot be that surprising to anyone, anymore. It might only have been the apparent seriousness that ruffled his feathers. When he answered, it was stiffly.

"Of course. Your room will easily accommodate two, Katniss."

I expected to feel pain at Gale's reaction, even regret, but all I feel is relief that it's over and one less thing with which to occupy my mind. I would not have been cruel enough to tell Peeta I'd made my decision unless I truly had. In answer to my confidence, Peeta refrains from being antagonistic or even overtly affectionate with me in front of Gale…typical gentleman that he is. It's actually me who's less restrained. As we thank Gale and walk away, I take his hand. His closes around mine, warm and strong, though. I don't want to cause Gale any harm, truly. Yet this is my life. I'll still be living it no matter where in Panem I am. It's best he gets used to it now if he's going to remain some satellite part of my life. It's one awkwardness to eliminate off the bat.

I can't think too much about what will happen tomorrow, and maybe that's best. There's no point in it. I'm grateful that we're expected to spend the minimal amount of time possible interacting with people this first night. I need to get my bearings. I feel suddenly sorry for Johanna, bunking next door, but then I remember she has her giant dog and probably, an enormous bed to share with him, and I feel a bit better.

Peeta takes the shirt from my hands and gently turns me. He slips it on and begins buttoning the front as I stand, like a young girl, in front of him. His nimble fingers slip buttons neatly into their loops. But I miss the shirt with the buttons he sewed back on, immediately. The fabric feels foreign against my skin and I can't wait to take it off again. Peeta reaches behind me and gently frees my braid from its elastic.

"Wear your hair down tonight?" He implores me. I reach up and touch his face. I feel that openness come into mine that only comes around him. He says he can see the softness in my eyes when I get it. I stretch up to kiss him. I don't tie my hair.

Peeta returns to his former room to change, and then meets me so we can walk down together. Johanna joins us on the stairs. Haymitch has already descended, and shockingly, uncorked a bottle of something fruit-flavored that I can smell from the landing. He may as well get one thing out of this trip. Johanna's wearing black, too, something funky and made of leather with intricate stitching forming a star on the back. I'm instantly lonely for Cinna. 

"Your stylist survived the war," I say. It's not a question.

She grins. "I have no idea. Maybe not, or else the closet would have looked like a forest. This is a new one."

She doesn't look particularly sorry for her old one, which, horribly, makes me want to laugh. Undoubtedly the outfit fits her personality, which is no secret. Peeta's wearing slate blue and it brings out his eyes. The three of us stand at the last landing for a minute, getting our bearings. Gale, Paylor, Plutarch, Fulvia, Beetee, Haymitch, and, to my surprise, Hazelle and the kids, are seated around a long glass conference table lit generously with candles and piled high with meats, cheeses, breads, and side dishes of all sorts. Conspicuously absent are my prep team and Cressida, who I'll be seeing tomorrow morning. The one who immediately rises and looks thrilled to see me is, of course, Hazelle. The others stand, but not fast enough to beat her. She has no room for decorum, and rushes into my arms. I'm hit with an unexpected flood of emotion. This is a woman I helped take care of, who helped care for Prim and I, after all.

"How are you, baby?" she whispers in my ear. I nod but my throat constricts, and it's Posy, now nearly seven, who clinches it. She runs up to me and wraps her tiny arms around my waist. Immediately, the tears begin to slide down my cheeks. I will them to stop, furious that my immediate action in coming into this space is to show weakness, but it's too big for that. None of this is unexpected or nonsensical. I feel Peeta's presence behind me, and it steadies me. I bend and kiss Posy's head. The boys are standing, tall and smiling. It's amazing how much Rory looks like Gale, at the age I first met him. Unsettling, almost. They look healthy, their cheeks filled with color. Hazelle dries my face with the hem of her sleeve and pats my cheek. Her eyes are bright, too. I know I'm like a second daughter to her. She turns to Peeta and smiles again, beaming up at him. He steps forward and envelops her in a hug. Posy stands back from him a little, gnawing on a pinkie, but she's smiling. Her hair is so long now. I can't help taking in these little details. Things change so fast. Prim flickers across my consciousness like a shooting star, but, as always, I strike the thought from the record as quickly as it comes. If this is betraying her memory, I'm not yet strong enough to act honorably. When I look up from Hazelle and the kids, I see that everyone at the table is smiling. Even Gale, though he looks wistful. And I actually feel a little better. None of these people, for all their obnoxiousness and association to bad memories, in some cases, are hateful. And all of them helped us, or tried to, in some way. I don't let my guard down, but my shoulders drop from my ears and I manage to sit, next to Peeta on one side and Johanna on the other. Despite myself, I'm hungry.

It's only small talk that's made over dinner. No one apparently wants to risk bringing up anything controversial. Paylor asks politely about 12 and, since I can see no reason not to and I'm assuming she already knows, I give her updates on the progress. She smiles when I tell her I'm working with a building crew. I can see the wheels turning in Plutarch's head, though, and can only imagine the potential propos he's salivating over. We talk weather, Johanna launches into an animated and vulgarity-laced story about how she acquired her dog—a card game is involved—and Haymitch gets progressively drunker. Gale is reserved, still polite and comparatively distant. I'm finding it hard to get an emotional read on him now, which is sad, because I remember I used to be able to sense his thoughts without even looking at him. I wonder if he's happy with his life. At some point, I'm sure we will have to talk again. Like tomorrow, I try not to dwell.

Paylor sets a merciful start time for our meeting tomorrow. The meal is delicious, though it's not home. I remember that soon enough I'll be eating Peeta's bread again, and will be probably twice as glad of it. Their bread doesn't stand a chance. Dessert is raspberries with cream and chocolate syrup, and somehow, I leave space to nibble on it. It's predictably delicious. I wonder if this is how they eat all the time. Of course, there is still no way to produce dishes like this in the Districts.

Dinner lingers a bit over coffee and discussion of the rebuilding status updates of the other Districts—4, 7 and 10 are moving fast but 2 and 11 are predictably shaky—but the kids are trying to delicately disguise their yawns by ten and Hazelle's polite excusal of herself and them, pausing to hug us as she goes, begins to break it up. Our little gang of three quietly says goodnight. I get the sense from the jittery, high-strung energy coming out of Johanna—she joined Haymitch in his acquisition of some of that fruit-flavored liquor—will be up for a bit, but she doesn't seem put out by it. As Peeta turns back to ask Haymitch if he'll be alright ("Don't worry about me, loverboy," is the response, and it's not in a steady tone, though it is in a definitive one), I call goodnight to Johanna up the stairs, and she responds with a flippant wave over one shoulder without turning around. Peeta catches up but, halfway up, I hear Gale's voice from the bottom.

"Katniss, a minute?" He sounds tentative. I only realize then that I'm holding Peeta's hand again. He looks to me with the question in his eyes: _Will you be alright?_

I answer him with my returning glance. _Fine, go ahead._ He kisses my cheek and disappears up the stairs. I revolve slowly to face Gale, and descend the steps one by one until I'm standing on the last one, level with him. I don't have time to be afraid. He simply gazes at me for a minute. I meet his eyes. They flicker back and forth between mine, and then a tentative, wistful twitch twists his lips, and he's smiling. Only then do I descend the final step and stand, looking up to him. I recognize the smile for what it is—hope. That there is still something. Maybe anything. He must know it'll never be like it was. But he smiles to me, and asks, in a tone that's low and pensive:

"Are you happy, Katniss?" It's the very question I'd wanted to ask him, and it comes prefaced with no cute pet names. I realize just then that he's almost twenty. We're adults now. It's a thought that keeps surprising me from different angles, this year. It's also an odd thought, since for me, there's been no demarcation between adulthood and childhood. Yet it makes me feel self-conscious. But the question is sincere, and it deserves an honest answer.

"Yes," I say. This is, of course, not the same thing as saying things are perfect, or that they are everything that we would all hope they would be, but it is true, I am, most moments, happy. It's nearly always tinged with some baseline level of anxiety, but I've come to accept that as part of the reality of what's happened. Peeta bears it too. I have to ask the thought that's in my mind.

"Are you?" I ask him, honestly curious.

"Sometimes," he says, and I know he's answered me honestly, too. This is a start, this small measure of truth that's slipped between us. One day I might be ready to handle hearing all of it, but this is something. We stand awkwardly in front of the darkened dining room, the light from wall sconces playing across Gale's strong nose and high cheekbones, for awhile. I'm about ready to wish him goodnight when he speaks again.

"Do you think we could talk sometime?" he asks.

"That depends on what you want to talk about." I continue to tell the truth. It just seems easier this way.

"Just life. How you are. How I am. It doesn't have to be for long." I'm honestly conflicted about answered this. There's such a wide field of information that I don't want to access. I'm afraid that if we try to talk we'll find that we can't anymore, that I'll find I can't be around him.

"Can I let you know?" I ask. I'm tired. Suddenly all I can think about is bed. But my mouth twitches a little too, even though I can't manage a smile.

Gale doesn't try to mask his disappointment this time, but he nods. I bid him goodnight and move to turn away, but his voice stops me once more.

"Katniss," I pause and look back.

His fingers reach out and he tucks my hair behind my ear, and his smile, for the first time, reaches his eyes.

"I really am glad," he says. I nod, but hard. I don't trust my voice. I know he understands. I turn, and I don't look back to him but I know he stands, arms at his sides, watching me until the dark in the hallway swallows me up.

Peeta sits on the edge of the big bed, clad in a soft old t-shirt and shorts. He's taken off his leg so only one foot reaches the ground, but I hardly notice anymore. When he hears the door open, he looks up.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Okay," I say. This is true, too. I cross to the mirror and look at myself, almost as if to see if I've changed at all, pre-Gale to post-Gale. My same old face stares back at me, only with all that dark hair unbound. I begin to unbutton my shirt, but then those familiar hands encircle me and move up to do it for me.

"This part is even better," Peeta whispers salaciously, and I laugh. He presses his nose to my hair and inhales. He slides it off my shoulders and I have a moment to look at our contrast in the mirror; his light eyes with my dark hair, and think how lovely it looks, before he's whispering against my hair.

"Come to bed?" he queries.

He draws back the thick blankets while I slip my pants off and reach for a long nightshirt that hangs at the end of the row of outfits. As soon as I cross to the bed, though, Peeta rises up on his strong thighs and, reaching down, pulls it up over my head, leaving me standing only in my underwear.

"No," he murmurs, and pulls my wrists down to him. I shiver as he pulls me to him and flips the covers over us. He lies behind me and holds me, my back to his chest. Our fingers twine together under the comforter. The room is lit by very soft pink light that shines just enough to see his fingers by. It seems very still, with only the rhythmic breathing of the boy with the bread behind me, and my own beating heart against his curled hand. He whispers to me, "I miss our bed. It's not the same."

I roll over under his arm. His hand strokes the curve from my ribs down to my waist and out. "I know one way to make it feel like our bed," I announce. He smiles. I lean in and stop just short of his lips. I want him to do it. Of course, he takes my cheek in one hand and kisses me with light, open lips. And of course, it makes the bed feel instantly more like home. Our heat has gathered in this small pocket and I feel dreamy and relieved. Peeta nips my lip and when I shiver, pulls me in closer. His hands caress my bare back and roam into my hair. They're gentle tonight, searching, and I welcome it. I cling onto him as he tucks one long thigh in between mine. The friction makes me bite my lip. I can feel his erection between us when the kiss deepens. When his hands move around to my breasts, up to their tips, I sigh. He dips his head and kisses them, soft little pattering rain falling down on me as he lies me down. His hands stroke my flat belly, find their way down over the slowly saturating cotton between my thighs. He murmurs against my mouth, kisses down my throat, nips my collarbone. Now that we're here, and it hasn't, at least thus far, proven the stuff of my nightmares—though I guess there's plenty of time for that—the resignation has inspired a lack of concern in me. It, like so much else, is like the dentist. I'm glad we chose not to put it off too long. My body drains of the tension that remains under Peeta's assured hands, so much more confident now mapping out the territory of my body. I remember that first night, when Peeta carried me home and kissed me in front of the fire. That night I made a conscious decision not to think anymore. The raw need to get out, to be the half of me that was so tired of hiding, consumed me.

Necessity.

But this is pure luxury, though the vast expanse of the bed is lost on us. We occupy only one small island, sandwiched in between sheets as soft as silk against my bare skin, as warm as though the sealed fireplace were roaring.

Peeta's fingers are slow, lingering. I tug his t-shirt over his head, ball it up, toss it away. His shorts fall away somewhere too. He kisses my hipbones, nibbles gently on the goose-pimpled flesh of my sides.

"You're so soft," he sighs. He kisses the delicate skin at the underswell of my breast. "I'm so lucky."

I reach down and tug my one remaining scrap of clothing off, and luxuriate in the sheets, twisting around. Peeta laughs and moves up against me, and as he leans down and presses into me and I feel that solid twitch between us, the wall is gone, as evaporated as though it had never been. I almost feel myself fall through it, like Alice in the rabbit hole. And I'm smiling up to him. My hands cup the back of his neck, and there it is.

"I love you," I tell him, before his mouth can reach mine.

"I love you too," he whispers back, and then descends again. I speak again, and he stops once more. And grows very still at the words.

"Make love with me," I say. The phrase slips from my lips as easily as though I had been asking him about his day. His eyes don't flicker back and forth like Gale's; they're steady and piercing and so blue. I see some deep dance of longing in the back of them.

He only asks me once.

"Are you sure?" His hands stroke my cheeks, both sides with his thumbs. He looks like he's drinking me in with those widened eyes. And I nod.

He rises and when he returns, I see he's traveled ready. I have a moment of shyness, but before I can hold onto it, he lies the foil packet aside, and takes me in his arms again. He nuzzles my neck and we rock together. I close my eyes and when his hands move again, they're over my own, moving so slowly, so tender. He guides me as I prep us for what seems like a millisecond before Peeta's propped on his elbows above me. I open my eyes, because I want to be there for every moment that I can be, watching his face. Those long, light eyelashes shade eyes that glow for me. I feel anticipation but never a moment of doubt. He rubs tentatively against me and I gasp and bite my lip reflexively, but he's done his work. I'm glad that I can feel the glide between us from his ministrations. Just before he moves, I whisper, "Are you?"

His mouth lowers again and just as he kisses me, I feel him press into me and I wrap my legs tightly around him. I can feel his body shaking as he moves, the only betrayal of his confidence, and I know he's struggling not to quicken his pace already. My breathing is coming shallow against him, though. It doesn't hurt exactly; it's just strange. I'm immediately flooded with a vast wave of gratitude that we took our time. I can't imagine trying to do this with a wall. The earthshaking feeling of vulnerability is held at bay only by the love and desire in his eyes that makes me feel like the only thing that exists for him in the world. Even through the kiss, they're open, looking soft with shock as we melt together. He breaks the kiss because his lips are parted, hanging open just near mine. I hear a tiny sound escape him. He must feel me stiffen as we move closer together, because he stops, though, his hand trembling as he pushes my hair off my forehead.

"Am I hurting you?" he asks, looking nervous.

I shake my head. "Just…go slow, okay?" He nods and it's not at all like everyone makes it out to be, not at first, because we just stay that way for awhile, unmoving. When I nod, having adjusted, he moves again. It only takes a moment this time before he stops, but it's because we're pressed together, as close as we can be. The feeling of having someone else's body inside me is otherworldly. I can't enjoy the pleasure of it just yet because of the foreignness. Peeta bites my neck gently and I shudder, my nails digging in to his shoulders, even though I don't mean to. He must feel this all the way down, because he groans softly. When he begins to move, I relax my body, vertebrae by vertebrae, back down into the down of the mattress. He shifts back and then forward again, and just for this first time, I'm glad it's not me who has to figure this out.

By the time he shifts forward again I feel it…a pleasure that begins between my legs and flows out and out. It makes my nipples taut and raises the hair on the back of my neck. I whimper softly and Peeta looks alarmed again, but the look in my eyes must be what he's searching for, because he drops his forehead to the crook of my neck and pants softly there, still shivering. I wrap my arms around his back as far as I can get.

"Oh my god, Katniss," he whispers in my ear. He's having trouble catching his breath, and I know it's not from the exertion. I hear him struggling with his own self-restraint.

"I know," I breathe back. He pushes in again and my legs tighten once more. My hands slip down to his hips as I try to learn his rhythm. It's all waves of pleasure now, and I want to keep my eyes open and trained on that hazy look that's washing into his, but they close involuntarily. When I open them again, I realize that I'm moaning softly to him. He's moving faster now; not hard, but not like the beginning. The friction is unbearable as he presses into me. I know this is probably still too uneven for me to orgasm, but there will need to be one in here somewhere, because I can't bear it if there's not. I'm willing to sacrifice anything he teases out of me after this. Listening to me, though, has pushed Peeta closer to his own edge.

"Katniss," he says, and it sounds like pleading, "I can't…"

"It's okay," I murmur against his ear. "We're going to do this again and again and again, don't worry." I suckle at his earlobe. My body is suffused in pleasure. I can distantly hear the soft knock of the bed against the wall as we move together, but I don't care. I can't remember anything about where we are; all that thrums in my ears is our rhythm and Peeta's name, over and over. It sounds like my lake, lapping at the shore. And it feels like all the things I love.

"Katniss…" he groans at my words, and then I feel a great shudder pour through him. Even his calves flex under my legs. His belly pulls tight against me, and I can feel the muscles. His face is buried into the crease of my shoulder, my hands wrapped in his sweaty hair, firm against his back. I hold us together. As he slows and then stops, I'm sorry for it, though. I immediately want more. I'm not through yet; the fire that shot down me rages and rages. I know he needs time, but the place we meet throbs wickedly. I try to catch my breath as he lies limp atop me. I've never felt closer to any human being than I do to him now. I never thought it was possible, and now that it's happened, I can't imagine it happening with anyone else. I'm not given toward trust, toward romance, toward even intimacy, but I can truly grasp how much I could have given up, almost did. I never stopped being scared. I'm still scared now. Just not of the same things. And there's no room for it, because other, more important things subsume it. These are the half-formed thoughts that flicker through my consciousness, and I see drifting lights behind my eyelids. Peeta's so quiet against me I think maybe he's drifting off. Then a shy voice, so uncertain compared to all that confidence, pipes up softly in the dark.

"Was that…okay?" I can tell he agonizes for a moment over how I'll respond. My arms immediately tighten around him in response and I hold his head to me. I don't have the words to describe any of it, but he melts back into my arms at the touch.

When I find my voice again, I answer. "Can you…finish me?"

"Of course," he says hastily, raising his head almost as though he's embarrassed not to have offered in the first place, and I can tell he was still drifting in his sea of afterglow. I feel bad for disrupting it, but I'm starting to squirm. He plays no games tonight. His mouth and hands find me, and it's blissfully brief. When my orgasm is at its peak, I call his name into the air that's long since grown humid and rich with the smell of our lovemaking. We've long since thrown the covers off. Our muscles are collectively completely slack as Peeta collapses beside me.

I close my eyes. I know I have to process, but in the aftershock of my pleasure, I let it go. A breeze drifts through the window we've cracked and alights on my overheated skin. I can sense Peeta drifting. He barely moves up to me and pulls me against his chest before his breathing begins to deepen. I feel exhausted from the day and the newness, and, once my body returns to normal, slightly sore from the sex. I know already that it won't stop me from wanting more, though. Honestly, I could go again now. But it's very late, and we have to get some rest. I close my eyes in the mild glow, and comfort laps against my mind and body both. _It'll be even better once we're home, in our own bed again_, I think.

Just before I give in and drift off to sleep, and as though echoing my thought in some telekinetic universe, Johanna Mason's highly amused voice pipes up right behind our bed, only slightly muffled by the wall between us.

"Have a good night, you two!"


	16. Whole New World

***Hello, all! Yes, it was a long break, and I can't promise the regularity of this story, but I haven't abandoned it, so take heart. I'm so glad that everyone has followed it so loyally, and a special shout-out to #louezem on Tumblr! Yes, I did see your page, and yes, I loved the love.

Last, TL&N is up for a couple of awards for best Everlark Smut which is awesome, yay! Please Google "Tumblr Everlark Smut Awards" and go vote for me. Thanks! Enjoy!

Chapter 16:

In the morning it hits me like a freight train, the second my reptilian brain rises to consciousness. I've slept completely soundly, curled around Katniss, but the second I begin to awake, boy, am I awake. My eyes fly open in the dawn. _There's no WAY that went down_, I think, beginning to settle into the disappointment that follows these dreams when they occasionally come. _But that one was so vivid._ I sneak a look at Katniss, curled into my arms. She's smiling in her sleep but she doesn't look any different at my first glance. She's nude, but that means nothing these days. She looks peaceful and I squirm for a minute or two, but I'm drawn in almost helplessly by the movie that's beginning to play again in my head. I brush my mouth against her neck, nipping gently under her ear. She makes an "mmm" sound but doesn't stir. I take her ear lightly between my teeth, stroke my hand down the valley between her breasts. She sighs and I feel her stir. As she sleepily turns her head to me, I whisper urgently in her ear.

"Was it real?"

She looks back and closes one eye like a wink, squinting at me and smiling.

"Yes, Peeta, it was real," she says, and my body feels like it's been hit with a thousand volts of lightning just hearing those affirmative words spill from her lips. For a few moments, I'm too paralyzed with joy to move. Then I move against her back, pressing my body frankly to hers. I move my hand up to cup her throat and tilt her head back, and bury the other in her hair. She groans, but it's not the kind that signals dissent.

"I need it again," I whisper urgently to her. My cock is so swollen it hurts, pressed into the small of her back.

She shivers all over against me at the words. I feel her arms break out in goosebumps. Against the inside of my forearm, her nipples are tight and hard. I feel dizzy even trying to think about this at all, but my body is calling, the rush of blood in my ears and my heart pounding against her back. That excruciating throbbing. _It's not possible. _

Her throat moves as she swallows under my hand and then as she nods. I don't even realize I'm holding my breath until I exhale. "Say yes," I say against her ear before I move. I want to hear it.

"Yes," she says, pressing back against me. I feel her whole body acquiesce, melting back into me. I suck my breath back in again. "Take it."

My hands are shaking terribly as Katniss nods towards the nightstand and I open it to pull out another one of Delly's rubbers. When I slide it over myself and turn to face her, Katniss pulls the covers away for us and stretches her arms above her head. I can't place anything, especially not at the moment, but she looks different. I'm convinced it's not just my mind playing tricks on me. She looks sensual, confident, in her position of repose. But her smile softens the calm wisdom that's come into her eyes looking at me. I wonder what has changed.

"Peeta," she whispers. "I'm waiting."

And then I'm lowering myself down to her, resting on my forearms. I hesitate before I continue. This is the fastest we've ever gone. I don't know if she's ready. Her eyes gazing up to me are dreamy, anticipatory, and she's chewing on her lip again.

"I'm not going to hurt…?" I ask. In response, still smiling, she reaches for my hand. Puzzled, I let her take it, and she slips the middle three fingers into her mouth and sucks on them for a minute. Just that sensation is driving me crazy. But I don't understand what she's doing until she takes them out and then guides my hand between her legs. I'm surprised that she's aroused at all. Maybe she had the same dreams as me. While her hand is there, she takes me in her hand and I'm shocked at her confidence and smoothness when she guides me inside her. My breath hisses through my teeth as I'm incapacitated by the feeling of Katniss' body around me. She's so hot. Jesus. My dream all rushes back, only not a dream, after all. _How many years have I spent hoping?..._ I'm trying with all my effort to remember it's not just me, to pull back from the bright lights that pop between my eyes. I focus my eyes on Katniss, my hand stroking her cheek lightly.

"Are you okay?" I ask. Her eyes are closed. She nods, her breathing a little uneven. Slowly, I press forward again, and the hand not on her face digs all its nails into the pillow because I can't even imagine how many times a day I'll need to do this before it stops feeling like I'm going to pass out and die at the same time. I feel Katniss yield under me, opening up and accepting my weight. When I lean down and kiss down her neck, she makes a sound like a whimper and a purr and tightens her arms around me.

I draw back and study her furrowed brow, those chapped lips parted. I'm still struggling not to shake.

"Open your eyes," I say to her. She does and I push forward again, sliding the rest of the way inside her. Her eyes automatically flutter shut as she arches up to meet me.

"Open them," I tell her, tapping her cheek lightly. She obediently does. I stare into their silver haze as I begin to so slowly rock back and forth against her. The friction is almost unbearable. I'm trying to go slow, but my body is dying to find out what happens if I push harder into her. I'm panting, and it's not because I'm tired. Katniss' eyes flutter shut. I don't know why, but I don't want them closed. I take her face between my thumb and my fingers on each side of her cheeks, not hard. Her eyes fly open again.

"Look right at me," I tell her, and her eyes lock with mine. My hand finds her hip and pulls her in tighter. She gasps and bites her lip. Her cheeks are flaming. When I press more firmly into her, she groans softly. I can feel her nails in my shoulders.

"Wrap your legs around me," I direct her, and I feel her soft legs tentatively creep back around my thighs.

"Tighter."

It's all I can do to breathe through the cement wall of pleasure hitting all my senses at once, but it's turning me on more to talk us through it. To be just a little bit of what she so often needs me to be. I feel those strong legs tighten around me, and her eyes are so wide staring into mine that she looks like one of the deer she stalks. I lean down and find her mouth with mine, and she arches up urgently, reaching for my kisses. Her eyes, this time, remain open the entire time, which makes me smile.

I push as hard as I dare against her, still afraid to hurt her, but her body rises eagerly to meet me. We're speeding up. The next time I move she cries out my name into the sweet, orange-tinted glow filling the room. Her eyes frantically stay with mine, but they're pleading, and finally I lower myself down to kiss her throat, the hollow of her neck, her delicate collarbone, the swells of her breasts. The salt from her skin coats my lips like dew, and I feel the inexorable rushing towards us.

"Katniss…" I think I'm saying her name, but maybe my lips are just moving. I have one glorious moment of watching her, hazy, arch her throat towards me blissfully, silky black waves falling just over the edge of the bed, and then it's only colors.

I can manage nothing but to lie limp atop her, my body weight held by forearms that quiver with the effort. We're slick with sweat and I can dimly hear her breathing, heavy, deep inhales and exhales. I don't remember taking her hand but our fingers are locked together on the pillow beside her head. When I can finally raise my head, shaking soaked curls back from my forehead, she's smiling. Her eyes are half-lidded. I feel regret that Katniss can't seem to reach orgasm at the same time as me when we make love—this is an expectation I've picked up from somewhere, but it's evidently not so clear-cut. I want her to come with me. But she doesn't look displeased; quite the contrary, she looks like the cat that got the canary, as my mother used to say. She's practically purring.

"This agrees with you, doesn't it?" I get out. I'm not surprised…it was Katniss who, way back when, initiated this entire chapter…but I'm surprised by the openness, the fact that she's not trying to hide, deny, minimize. She just lies there in slanting beams of sunshine that are so calming, because they could be from home, this could be our bed, if I close my eyes. Katniss is my home, so home is where I am. I carefully slip out of her and slide the condom off myself, throwing it in the trash beside the bed. She stretches extravagantly, closes one eye, glances down, and laughs. I'm self-conscious for a moment before I spot an enormous wet patch on our sheets and then I bite my lip, trying not to smile, but I can't hold it back.

"I think it does, yes," she says, with a kind of cheer that I hope, or maybe just wish, she could hold on to for the remainder of what will be a very long day. As I sit on the edge of the bed, she slides up and wraps her arms around me from behind, nibbling on one earlobe.

"Want me to make you come?" I ask. She considers this a moment, and then shakes her head.

"Later," she says, and sighs. "Maybe it'll be a good reward for getting finished with this fucking day." Already her face is drawing back into its old seriousness; I can hear it in her voice. I feel a fleeting sense of sadness followed by a weary resolution. I want to lie back down, pretend it's a Saturday at home and we have the time to lie in one another's arms for awhile in luxury, but the thought is only half-formed when a familiar voice yodels through the door.

"Kaaaaaaatniiiiiiiss!" I'm glad they sent Johanna to fetch us. She'll be the easiest means by which to coax Katniss out.

"Oy vey," Katniss says resignedly, but with a note of comedy in her voice. I make a mental note that our sex has been quiet neither last night nor this morning, which means that word will probably spread like wildfire. Do I even care? _Gale might_, my mind thinks pettily, before I can stop it. Katniss is sliding off the bed beside me, though. I pinch her ass as she goes and she slaps my hand. She's wrapped in the bedsheet so I quickly retrieve my trousers from the floor and buckle them on. She opens the bedroom door to find Johanna leaning on the doorframe, hair standing crazily on end and a self-satisfied smile plastered on her face.

"You have no respect for privacy," Katniss reproaches her, holding up the sheet with one hand.

"Oh, _Peeta_!" Johanna responds promptly, in a falsetto imitation of Katniss' cries from last night and this morning, and I feel my face instantly flame. Katniss groans, pleadingly. Johanna is laughing. She peeks over Katniss' shoulder and sees my face and then the laughing deepens even further. Some far corner of my brain that's not humiliated into oblivion registers that at least Johanna is starting her day with a laugh, since it's the only one we might get that day.

I'm right about that.

Once the blood drains from Katniss' and my faces, we descend to breakfast. Katniss, Johanna and I all inexplicably dress in black—black pants (Johanna's are army-fatigue print, which probably speaks to her mindset), black button-down shirts, combat boots for Johanna, Katniss' soft leather ones for her, sturdy black shoes for me. We took a quick shower in one of the Capitol's masterpiece showers, opting only for the necessary bits, though I'm exasperated that just watching Katniss soap her body inexplicably aroused me once more. Breakfast is set out on the sideboard. Regrettably though unsurprisingly, Hazelle and the kids are absent this morning. Present are Haymitch, looking drained and coveting a goblet of something red that's taking the place of actual food in front of his place, Gale, whose face is a stormcloud…_Gee, I wonder why_…shoots by in my brain, a thought like a shooting star, Paylor, who is talking animatedly with Plutarch, Fulvia, Beetee and three or four new people I don't recognize. Clearly this is a working breakfast. We hesitate imperceptibly on the stairs in lockstep, but where else is there to go? _This will be a fun day_.

"Ahh, there's our little Mockingjay!" croons Plutarch merrily, in a tone that makes Johanna's smile drop off so fast I think it might shatter on the floor.

"Morning," Katniss says neutrally, and brushes by them, beginning to load up a plate with eggs, potatoes, rolls, fruit. I file in behind her and snag a couple of hot chocolates for us without even thinking about it. Johanna, Katniss and I line ourselves up beside Haymitch, with Katniss in the middle. I'm glad for this.

"We have a big, big day ahead of us!" says Fulvia, and my stomach lurches, as I remember Effie's voice saying those very words to us not so long ago…or forever ago? Hard to tell. Katniss' nails are already digging into the edge of the table.

"We're thrilled," says Johanna in a monotone. Haymitch shoots her a side-eye that she either doesn't see or chooses to ignore. Fulvia is passing around itineraries. Katniss brushes hers aside and begins to eat, but I pick up mine, an itemized list on a piece of paper that, to this day, seems luxurious to me. I begin to scan it.

0900: Breakfast (Ministry House)

0930: Debrief of current state of affairs in Panem (Capitol Building Meeting Hall)

1030: Report out from the districts (Capitol Building Meeting Hall)

1100: Council convenes (Capitol Building War Room)

1300: Break for lunch

1600: Council closes

1600-1700: Propo preparation (Return to Ministry House)

1700-1900: Propo shoot (Monument Square)

1900-1930: Mockingjay's Address to Panem (Monument Square Podium)

1930-2100: Dinner at the President's Manse

_Dear sweet Jesus_, I think. Twelve hours of meetings, lectures, reports, filming and….a speech? By Katniss? My mind registers some consternation at this. We haven't been here a day and they're going to ask her to give a speech? I remember Haymitch's words of warning: _Things are likely to happen rapidly and maybe unexpectedly. _Is he ever wrong? I'd like to have some of that foresight to go along with all this instability and bad memories. I tally the numbers on the sheet of paper. Five hours in council. Then preparation to shoot a propo? Propos about what, exactly? By who? Katniss? Me? All of us? I have more questions than I can conjure, looking at this. But Katniss only gives it a cursory glance and goes back to eating. From the look on her face, I can tell not only is she unsurprised, but she's borderline bored by it. Johanna is neatly and efficiently folding her sheet into a paper airplane. When Plutarch's back is turned she aims it at him, and Haymitch's hand shoots out and pins it back to the table. _Not now_, I watch him mouth to her. I can't help but echo the thought. I know this is her way of coping, but we need as many functioning adults on board as we can get.

Everyone is taking their seats, and Paylor is impatiently waving the ones who linger to the table. She waits until everyone is seated and waiting, forks and spoons neatly left on plates to be collected by the roaming attendants in green—my plate is still partially full, since I got distracted by the itinerary and because my stomach has been churning anyways—to speak.

"Welcome," she says softly, and she's smiling. I don't trust that smile and I don't need to look sideways to know that I'm not the only one. Really, who can blame us? Katniss' hand, small and cold, reaches for mine under the table and I hold it. "Thank you all for coming out to us. We understand that it could not have been an easy decision, but felt that it is of utmost importance that you be a part of the process of decision-making that has been ongoing since we've secured a new government here in the Capitol. We have important decisions to make that we would not want to do without your input—because it is unique and valued, and because you have been such a central part of the war effort and the collective consciousness." I understand this to mean, at least in part, that the people of Panem expect to see us and we've thus far been absent. I'm not wrong about that, either.

"The people of Panem have greatly longed to hear from all of you, particularly, of course, from you, Katniss. They have great respect and love for their Tributes and their Mockingjay and are invested in your happiness and success…"

…I hear something low from Johanna that sounds like _bullshit_…

"…however, we understand that it has been necessary for you to get some much-needed rest and healing in your home districts. We honor that this healing is still ongoing, and will respect your need for slight alterations in schedule, should that be necessary. We appreciate your full cooperation in these matters, of course."

It's not lost on me that the genial statement about alterations is directly followed by one that sounds more like a threat. I feel that I can almost read Haymitch's thoughts, because I know he's noting this, too.

"That said, we have many things to accomplish today and big discussions that need to be undertaken, about difficult subjects. We will be relocating throughout the day to a variety of sites around the Capitol, but at your request, we have tried to limit them to sites that will be less…triggering."

This is the first time Katniss speaks, and it is to interrupt. "It says here, 'President's Manse,'" she points out. "Is that the former dwelling of Snow?"

Paylor clears her throat and looks uncomfortable. "It has been…renovated quite a bit since you last visited," she equivocates. Katniss' eyes narrow.

"We have done our best to take into account your preferences," says Paylor. I note that several others around the table, not among the four of us, are looking uncomfortable, too. Gale sits as stone-faced as ever. Beetee too looks impassive but the new people are disconcerted. I try to place them, but fail. "We are having you speak in a part of the Capitol that was not a part of your…experience…here, which is called Monument Square, where you will be centrally noticeable and heard, but which is not connected to any….ah, bad memories that you may have."

"I'm not going near the President's Mansion," Katniss responds flatly. "I can see the place where my little sister was murdered from there, in case you didn't remember."

The silence in the room is thick and we're exactly five minutes into the day.

"We will be having the dinner in a part of the mansion that is not adjacent to that view of the city, nor will it be familiar to you from your time there," Paylor pushes on. "We have relocated our meetings to the new Capitol Building that is situated slightly back from the city center. Many parts of the city have been rebuilt as such that they will no longer even be recognizable to you."

"Oh, they'll be recognizable," says Katniss. I can see her weighing her options, picking her battles, inside her head. I squeeze her hand for comfort. "I'll make the decision of whether or not I'm able to _attend_ at a later point, if it's alright with you."

It isn't, but what can they do about it? President Paylor looks dissatisfied, but clears her throat and moves on. The other three of us sit silently, watching and waiting.

"I would like to introduce some members of our leadership team here that you might not be aware of," says Paylor, gesturing to the three people beside her, "And I think a round of introductions is in order." She turns expectantly to a man beside her. He has dark brown skin and his hair hangs in long braids down his back. He looks stately. He nods his head to us and introduces himself as Randolph, Chief Minister of Reconstruction. "Randolph is in charge of the lesser Ministers who are working under him—that would be the Ministers of Transportation, Food and Health, Labor, Human Services and Rights, Commerce, Media, Education, Weapons and Technology Development, and Security," she lists. "Obviously it would have been difficult to convene with all of them at this time, however, we would at some point in the near future like to convene again with all present."

…I hear something else from Johanna's direction that sounds like _don't bet on it_.

Next to Randolph, a woman with flaxen hair pulled into a knot so tight it looks like it's pulling back her forehead, and three piercings lined up in each ear, introduces herself as Flora. She is the Secretary of State, the one responsible for traveling to each district and returning with updates, and keeping them abreast of what's happening in the Capitol. Apparently she helps write speeches and direct what's shown on our televisions these days, as well. She has perfect teeth and looks to be in her mid-thirties. Katniss is doodling in some leftover jam with her fork, but she looks up after this last has been announced. The woman sitting directly to Paylor's right is enormous, heavily muscled, middle-aged, with deep-set eyes that are serious, wary and wise. The President begins to introduce her. "And this is my interim Vice President…"

"Commander Lyme," says Katniss in greeting. This means nothing to me but I see Johanna scrutinizing her face, and then she nods as if in recognition. Haymitch gives a small smile. "It's good to see you again," says Katniss in an even voice, and I know without looking that she's not being flattering. She likes this woman.

"You as well," says Lyme softly. "Good work, Soldier Everdeen." Katniss hasn't been addressed this way in some time, but she nods in thanks. I'm still trying to place the woman, so I resolve to ask Katniss later. Her face nags at my mind. I think maybe she was a Victor, once upon a time. That would explain Johanna and Haymitch. At least there's a pick that Katniss approves of in some way.

We do a quick round. Plutarch introduces himself as head of the Senate, an archaic word that they use for the group of citizens that has convened to help make decisions about the fate of the districts—I learn that there are three from each district, who were voted on by their people, and three from the Capitol, for a total of 42. Fulvia is his second-in-command, which is a promotion for her. Gale introduces himself as "Gale Hawthorne, second-in-command, Weapons and Technology Development," and I try very hard not to smirk. Beetee, of course, is Head of Weapons and Technology. Katniss has returned to focusing on her plate. I wonder if this is her way of trying to block it out. I know that she's still taking it all in, but her face is unreadable. Everyone knows Paylor, of course. She nods to us and inexplicably, we all introduce ourselves only by name and district, without any accolades, "Soldiers," "Victors" or the like. "Katniss Everdeen," says Katniss, shortly. Even Johanna restrains herself.

"We'll be moving over to the Capitol building now," Paylor says brusquely. Everyone rises and pushes their chairs back, and Katniss refuses to let go of my hand. I look down to her face and tuck a stray strand behind her ear.

"Are you okay?" I ask her. Never have I wanted more to be back in our house, having breakfast before the day begins, with her perched on my good leg in the sunny kitchen while Buttercup _waows_ around our ankles. She nods but looks unsteady. I'm worried for her. I can't help myself. I bend down and touch my lips lightly to hers. She sighs. I get a mental image of us in bed tonight, only she's on top, riding me. I shiver. She smiles, as though she can read my mind. I wouldn't put it past her. I wish we had more privacy.

We take a circuitous route to the new Capitol building, which is relatively modest given the Capitol's preference for frippery. I suspect that this is a space that they'd have preferred to reject in favor of something grander, but we are not covering the area that our team covered in those last fatal days of Snow's regime as we fought through the pods and watched our friends and comrades die. I suppose if you stretched on your toes you'd be able to see the top of the President's Mansion over the ash trees that line the streets, but we're obviously not looking for that. There is still evidence of rebuilding—wooden boards over windows, the occasional pile of rubble in the street, a few half-demolished dwelling. Katniss mostly watches our shadows as we walk. It's disconcerting, this quietness from her. Waiting and watching, I suppose. Like she does in the woods. We climb a broad, flat set of stairs and disappear into the shadow under the eaves, like the justice building in district 11, where Katniss forgot her flowers and we spoke to Haymitch in the dusty, unmonitored dome. The lobby is stately, sparsely furnished with ostentatious couches and vases of flowers I don't recognize. Paylor leads our little party to the left. Gale and Beetee are talking animatedly while Paylor converses with her crew. Katniss and I lag a little behind. Haymitch, at one point, steals a glance at us and mutters, "Remember what we talked about. Hang in there, Mockingjay." He must have noticed Katniss' pale face and her silence. She only nods. Johanna is playing with a knife that she's flipped from a holster in her belt. I wonder how it is that they've let her bring _that_ into the building.

This intuition must be spot-on, because when we reach the tall metal doors that separate off the room we must be entering, Paylor spots Johanna. She shakes her head. "Johanna, weapons are not permitted into closed meetings in State buildings. Please leave that with the desk attendant."

Johanna's eyes flash fire in an instant. She flips the knife closed again. "I'll put it away," she says coolly, storing it back in her belt.

"Johanna," Paylor begins.

"Leave it," orders Haymitch in a voice that carries, so heads turn even when they weren't paying attention a moment ago. He stands next to Johanna and I wouldn't go so far as to call his tone defiant, but it's uncompromising. Paylor looks aggravated, and I know that she's worried, like Coin, about being undermined by our disobedience.

"I would really prefer…" she begins tentatively.

"No," snaps Johanna. "I said no." She brushes past Paylor into the meeting room and flops into a comfortable-looking swivel chair beside a glass-topped table in a room surrounded by monitors and electronic equipment, like their labs in 13. Paylor looks slightly mutinous but then relents, choosing, I guess, to pick her battles, as Katniss has done. The rest of us file past Paylor and take seats beside and around Johanna. I make sure that Katniss is between us, protectively. The others take various seats and the day really begins.

The first part of it is not so bad. Paylor sums up the major points of where we're at in the rebuilding phase. Some of this we know. They've set laws granting all citizens the right of marriage, safe and comfortable dwellings, regular work and fair pay, education until age 22, adequate allotments of food and necessities at reasonable prices and the right for citizens to trade…this bit is still being hammered out because, due to unstable means of transportation, the rebuilding of all that was shattered means that what we get and when is still spotty…freedom of speech and expression…Haymitch snorts when she says this but she ignores him…travel, and healthcare, as hospitals are being constructed in each district. Slowly, citizenry have been allowed to relocate to districts of their choice, if for whatever reason they feel they are unsustained, unwelcome or unhappy in their own districts, many of which have struggled to reach some state of independence with the vast amounts of destruction. This movement makes it difficult to get an official count of the population, but it's happening slowly enough that tallies from the districts have been gathered before any real mass migration has been accomplished. In some areas supplies are still being rationed until supply lines can be completely stabilized, so there's a very unequal distribution of who has what resources—in this way, the fact that we've lost so many citizens works in our favor, because it means less people to care for, though this is cold comfort. The rebuilding phase is at various levels of success in different places around the country. Additionally…and I'm surprised by this…Lyme and others have been attempting to regain contact and allyship with neighboring nations, which was not even a topic of discussion previously, at least not with us. The main players in the war—heads of State, Snow's personal cabinet, the Capitol's high-ranking military commanders, head Peacekeepers and Gamemakers are in protective custody, awaiting their fate. Few of them have shown remorse. Short-term goals are establishing reliable means of communication and transportation for all districts, building hospitals and rebuilding dwellings that were demolished in the war, providing assistance for women and children who lost their means of support, and establishing an interim government that begins to pass basic civil rights laws for the citizenry. Long-term goals include establishing a countrywide militia, democratically electing a permanent government, and developing districts, like 12, that have lagged in infrastructure, technology and resources they were deprived of by the Capitol.

Paylor stops there and hands the floor over to Lyme, who briefly updates us on the status of the districts. Predictably, 2, 8, 11 and 12 were hit hard—2 in part by us, when we brought down the Nut in a way that is still requiring intense cleanup—and are consequently still struggling to rebuild and maintain populations, since many from these districts have migrated. Other districts are in various stages of disrepair. I'm surprised to hear that several of the interim Heads of State in the districts are former Victors, and nearly all are either Victors or decorated military personnel. 13 is heavily involved in the rebuilding process in particular, because of the wealth of knowledge they amassed over the course of 75 years about how to do it effectively.

"An accurate population count is almost impossible to gain," Lyme restates, "But our census-taking has indicated that Panem probably has a population, post-war, of about twenty thousand, including the injured, some of whom are now disabled." The silence shifts into a state of shock, and I see even Johanna's eyebrows rise. This is terrifically low, maybe half of what we had before, and a minute fraction of what the country encompassed before the dark days. For the first time, I realize how truly close we have come as a country to decimating our population, perhaps beyond repair. Lyme nods into the silence, looking unflappable. "We are thankful that there was no nuclear attack," she says, somewhat grimly, in closing.

Lyme takes a seat and I look depressingly down at our schedule for the day, which is being projected below the glass tabletop for easy reference. Time to move in to the bulk of the conversation, the place where we will have to begin talking, rather than being lectured at. Our bodies have grown increasingly tense on this side of the room…my muscles are in knots and I feel Katniss' leg jiggling under the table. Johanna has surreptitiously pulled out her knife again and is flipping it open and closed under the table with a practiced hand. Haymitch, two down from me, scratches at one arm, then the other. I bet he wishes he could do this part drunk.

"At this point," the President breaks in, "We will adjourn for a ten-minute recess, and then will convene at the top of the stairs, to the right, in the War Room, for the bulk of our time together today. Please be prompt." We rise and I feel my back crackle as I stretch. Three hours down, ten million to go, it feels like. All of us make a beeline out of the room, wanting as much time away as we can get. Outside the door, we gather around Haymitch. We had made a note to check in every day, and so far today we haven't had the chance.

"Anything come up for anyone, or do we feel like we need to debrief again? Now is the time," he says shortly. Our collective is quiet. Then Katniss speaks up.

"I'm not sure I can do this," she says. She's not looking at any of us, but out the window beyond us. Johanna wraps a protective arm around her shoulders. "We've got you," she tells Katniss. "If you need to step out, do it. Don't ask their permission." Katniss nods uncertainly. It hits me that she's at the edge of tears and I'm angry at them for bringing her, once again, into their mess.

Haymitch sighs. "I know, sweetheart," he says. "We have to try, okay? I know we don't want to be here but this is our chance to use the influence we have, and we shouldn't waste it. Do you feel okay about what we sketched out?"

"Yeah," Katniss said, "But when I see all of them lined up, it feels like an us-against-them thing, and I don't have the energy for any more wars."

"Lyme is our friend," Haymitch points out. "And the others might be swayed. At the very least, they have to hear us out, and we'll be a strong presence because of our history with them, especially you, Katniss. I'm sorry that you have to be put in this position, but that's the reality of it." I see her swallow and she nods.

"I need some air," she says. "Can I just get some air?"

"Of course," says Haymitch, and he steps aside for her. I hang back uncertainly, but she looks back over her shoulder at me and extends her hand wordlessly, so I catch it and walk outside with her, into a balmy spring day. She leans her back against the Capitol building. I lean in front of her and put both my palms against the wall to either side of her. The streets are unbelievably quiet and I think again about Lyme's statistic. 20,000. Jesus. Katniss closes her eyes. I can smell the flowers that nod in the breeze along the steps. I lean in and kiss her forehead, her cheeks, the top of her head, the tip of her nose. I cup her cheeks in my hands and stroke them with my thumbs. She covers my hands with her own and exhales.

"Do you think I can do this?" She asks unsteadily. I nod. In fact, I'm not sure, but I know she needs me to say yes to this in order to go back inside, and Haymitch is right, although I feel this is some sort of small betrayal: we need her. Her voice is the loudest among us. "You've done harder," I remind her. She nods slowly back. Her eyes stare into my own and inexplicably soften.

"I couldn't do this without you," she says. "Sure you could," I answer her. "Don't underestimate yourself." I know that it's only the closeness that's come out of months of back-and-forth that allows her to drop her guard enough to reveal this insecurity to me. It's flattering, but I do believe that in the end, she could have done it alone, if she'd had to. Katniss is made of steel wire, even now. She leans in for a kiss.

The kiss starts chastely enough but blooms when she wraps her arms around my neck. Her mouth parts against mine and our tongues meet. We're still hungry from last night, from this morning, we're clinging to the luxury that's pulled us through, the comfort, the wanting that grew from need. We're looking for a way out, if only for a moment. It's effective, if temporary. I pull her to me and she laughs softly when she feels my physical want for her, again. It does me good to see her laugh. I stroke down the side of her left breast, so lightly, tickle the tips of my fingers under the bottom of her soft shirt. I kiss down her neck and she closes her eyes in the sun.

The front door opens with a bang and we jump, but I don't lift my head in time before Gale steps out, his posture military-perfect, hands clasped at the small of his back. He obviously didn't expect us, because he scowls when he catches a glimpse of Katniss' closed eyes, of my roving hand that quickly pulls back. Katniss turns and I wrap my arms protectively around her from behind, her back against my chest. She doesn't resist; in fact, she melts into it, although I feel myself doing that petty masculine posturing thing again.

"Hi," she says, matter-of-factly.

"Hi," Gale says shortly, "Sorry to disturb. You're needed." He turns and goes back inside. He didn't sound very sorry to me. I sigh in unison with Katniss. She takes my hand again and I hold it tight as we open the doors and step back into the cool shadows.

"I've got you," I whisper, as we join Johanna and move towards the stairs in lockstep dread. Johanna kisses her cheek sweetly. She smiles gratefully at us, and I have the time to be glad, despite it all, that this has brought us, such disparate figures, each with our own pain and sorrow and defiance and determination, together as a fellowship, probably forever. Confidence creeps, just a little.

_Still_, I can't help but think, _it's going to be a long day. _I resign myself, and we move with finality into the cavernous War Room…maybe, I think sorrowfully, just to wage one more kind of war. _It never ends_.


	17. In the War Room

***In celebration of TL&N winning 3rd place for best fic-in-progress and 2nd place for best multi-chapter fic in the Everlark Smut Awards, I took time out from work today. Thanks to all who voted!

All I can think is, _I'm going to have to begin all over again._ I think it with despair, and I feel like that despair is showing no matter how hard I'm trying to hold it in. I'm trying to hold it in so badly I find myself actually holding my breath as proxy while the meetings begin. The information we're being provided is interesting and important, but this isn't the part I'm worried about. This is just the beginning. I glanced at the schedule once over breakfast and couldn't bring myself to look at it again. Afterwards, I have no choice, since it's projected under the ostentatious glass table of the meeting room in the Capitol building. I can't block it out as it revolves slowly in front of me under the all-too-familiar fluorescent lights that hurt my eyes. There's a thick knot of resentment in my throat for all of it—having to be here again, having to be the Mockingjay again, having my beautiful night with Peeta back-burnered because I need all my concentration to get through today. I peripherally catch things that might have mattered yesterday—the incensed look in Gale's eyes when we come downstairs, the way Haymitch's eyes keep darting around the room, looking for the exits, the respect in Lyme's voice that I once strove to get—but I don't really take them in.

_I've come so far and this is going to just break all that down again_. Peeta's my rock. That's not going to change. We waited so long to have sex but I'm glad we did it when we did; it was steadying, even though I wish I could devote all day to thinking about it. Hell, to doing it a few more times. It still nags at the back of my head—something so powerful that we'd waited for so long can't just be erased, whatever the circumstances…but mostly I'm just trying not to disappoint anyone. _Weak. I feel weak._ The others are counting on me but what I really want to do is bury my face in my arm and scream and scream and scream until my voice goes, for being back in this place. When no one else is looking, on the walk over, Johanna pulls me aside and offers me a tiny blue pill. "It'll take your edge off," she says. I have long since defiantly poured my supply of these down the toilet in 12. They helped in the beginning but then they just made me foggy. My coordination was always off and it would take hours for my sluggishness to wear off in the mornings or after naps. They made it impossible to shoot game with any accuracy, and that's when I decided I was fed up. I'm sorely tempted to take her up on her offer—I know she's on these as we speak, and she seems more balanced, although sometimes it's hard to tell—but I can't bring myself to take it. Maybe it's just a pride thing but it's real enough. She seems to understand. "Let me know if you change your mind," she says. I feel that deep well of gratitude for having them rallying around me, but also a compulsion to lead them that I could do without.

It's when we dismiss from the debrief and go into break that I start to lose it. My hands are shaking just enough for me to notice. I'm chewing the inside of my mouth so hard I know I'll taste blood soon if I don't stop. _Thank god you didn't have coffee at breakfast._

"I'm not sure I can do this," I tell them. I can't look at them because I don't want to see the displeasure and dismay that I'm sure I'll see. _They love you_, I tell myself, but it's as though I've drifted away. My mind keeps wanting to return to Finnick, to Prim, like a dog worrying a bone. I've stayed away from here as long as I possibly could. I've made excuses, I've changed the subject, I've distracted myself with Peeta. _That's not fair_. I've long since stopped making this my primary goal of interacting with him, but it's undeniable that we function in this way for one another. Maybe that's an oversimplification. He's still here. He's here **with** me, not **for **me. But there's a sour taste in my throat because I have to be weak and lean on him once more. _He was tortured here, how could you not remember that? Why are you not being __**his**__ rock right now?_ I don't know how he seems so calm. Sure I do. It's for me. Peeta still has the natural reaction of placing my own welfare above his own at any cost. It's been this way ever since he took those hard hits to the face for burning the bread that saved my family's life. I never stopped owing him since then. At the moment, I can't even remember if I ever said thank you. When Haymitch tells me that I'm their best shot, implies that I have to pull myself together to take one for the team, I resent it bitterly, but I know he's being as gentle as he can while still be realistic. He's not wrong, but it's a hard thought, because once again, I feel less like myself and more like a tool. I don't feel like they respect whatever I have to say; I feel like they need it in order to be accountable to a population that's come to expect me to be the star. I'm so weary of all of it.

_You know, Prim died here._

I hate my traitorous brain. When Peeta pulls me outside to hold me for a few minutes, it helps. I let myself be drowned in his mouth and eyes and hands for a few minutes. I grant myself the luxury of not feeling guilty for just ten minutes. I give myself over. Until Gale, of course, interrupts. While I'm grateful that we were able to speak a few words to one another last night, now I can see him only as the enemy, the other side, the one who lives in a fancy house and does the bidding of just another government agenda. Anyone who isn't with me is against me. As often with me, there are no shades of grey. I miss my mother. I miss Prim. I miss Finnick, I miss Cinna, I miss Rue, I even miss Hazelle at the moment. I miss everyone, all at once.

_You know, Prim died here!_

Maybe it was too soon to come back.

All these thoughts are what flash through my head between breakfast and our final trek up the stairs to what they call the War Room. This is when the day really begins. I can't think beyond each singular thing in this schedule—I'll worry about the next part after this one, because otherwise I won't be able to cope at all.

"I've got you," Peeta whispers, and Johanna kisses my cheek. Johanna may as well be my sister by now—how far we've come. Good things did come out of all of this. Peeta is the optimist who always remembers this and often has to remind me. They snap me back into reality. I push my shoulders back and set my mouth, try to project some sense of confidence into myself. _Fake it,_ I think desperately. _Just fake it! They won't be able to tell_.

Who am I kidding? Of course they'll be able to tell. The whole country can tell when I'm faking things. That's why they had to send me into actual war zones to get propo footage. Everyone here knows that I can't perform. It's either all of me or none. Johanna shares this trait with me, and maybe it's the bulk of what bonds us together, this inability to be anything but naked…ironically, for me…to the world. But what choice do I have?

The room we enter is enormous. The ceiling is impossibly high and ends in a round dome high above us. The seats are set up auditorium-style and there are hundreds of them. Clearly, this is a room made for decisions about war. Its furnishings are solemn, everything made of dark wood and dark colors except the fancy equipment.

"This was modeled after the original room used by the Senate branch of government in the Old Days!" Plutarch announces proudly. I feel contempt rise in my throat. Just what we need, to model our process after a bunch of people that burned the Earth beyond repair and warred with one another until the viable resources we depleted almost beyond the point of return and the population was similarly decimated. There is a table set up on a raised platform at the front of the room, with just enough chairs for us. Huge screens…the kind that were used to project the Hunger Games in the town centers not too long ago…are prominent behind us. They're dead right now, but the table is lighted and I can see where smaller screens slide out from each place. At its head, where Paylor sits flanked by Lyme and Plutarch, there is a complex network of controls. A podium stands to one side with a microphone attached. I have to grit my teeth when I note the familiar Capitol emblem emblazoned on the front of it. It's logical, I tell myself reasonably. The Capitol symbol is old and widely recognized. It'd modified by a rectangle of cloth suspended beneath it, one I've never seen before, not even in class. It's a symbol made up of many horizontal red and white lines, with the top left corner devoted to an emblazed bunch of white stars against blue. I do a quick count. Fifty stars. Fifty stars? We have only thirteen districts. I resolve to ask about this. No doubt it's some sort of sigul from the Old Days that Plutarch is puffed up about.

The four of us take seats in a line, as we did before, only this time, it's Gale sitting directly in front of me. I wish he'd have the decency to avert his gaze, but I feel his eyes on me. Peeta takes my hand under the table. Peeta meets his eyes squarely, but only for a minute, like a dare. I wish they'd get over this entire thing. It still makes me feel like property sometimes, as though they're two birds flashing their plumage at one another, or two bucks with their antlers locked. It should be evident by now that I've chosen. But this is neither here nor there. Gale's issues are not the problem at hand. At a touch of a button from Paylor, another document emerges under the glass tabletop. This is an agenda of topics that we'll be covering. In the seconds it takes for me to scan it, I say a silent prayer to Haymitch and Johanna, more seasoned Victors than I am, whose thoughts about what we should steel ourselves for were pretty spot-on. Primarily featured are the questions of executions, our role as ambassadors for the new government, and of course, the Hunger Games. My stomach gives a lurch at this last one. These are broken down into component parts, but very little has been unanticipated. I can muster up a sense of gratitude that we managed a caucus about these things on the train so that we don't talk over or contradict one another. There's time for questions and answers at the end, but I'll be damned if I wait until then, if I have any. The end of the agenda lists the item "Subsequent Meetings" with a question mark beside it. Another thing that I notice which was absent from our foresight is "Mental Health Check-In and Evaluation." I bristle at this immediately. Johanna's face is unreadable, while Haymitch looks unsurprised and also uncomfortable, shifting around his straight-backed chair. I know when he doesn't drink he usually feels off, anyways.

"Let's begin, shall we?" Paylor's voice rings out authoritatively in the empty space. The heavy doors have been barred behind us, but I'm paranoid of the monitoring systems that these places have had, in my experience. I developed a habit of being hyper-aware of what I'm saying when I'm in any dwelling that might possibly be bugged that's become almost second-nature. Not that it matters much, now. The President is in the room waiting to hear it. "Here is a preliminary list of topics that need to be worked out today. As we have mentioned, they are as yet incomplete and we'll likely be inviting you to the Capitol at a further date to continue in the rebuilding process. In fact, that's one of the major things we need to discuss with you today, so perhaps we should start there."

Johanna breaks in when Paylor pauses to inhale.

"What's 'Mental Health Check-In'?" she asks. I'm glad she's asking for me, since that line item confuses me and makes me feel wary and closed.

Beetee clears his throat. This is the first time I've heard him add his voice to the conversation, other than his greeting to us this morning when we came in. "Due to the circumstances under which we have all come together, we recognize that the potential for suffering traumatic mental health issues that extend beyond the initial shock of the war is overwhelming. Those of us present in the Capitol have received regular mental health check-ins and clearance, to be sure we are able to proceed in full capacity with our needed tasks. We are aware that you as well have been under medical surveillance in the past several months. However, being as how you are now in the Capitol, we agreed that it would be prudent for all of you to undergo evaluations with Capitol mental health professionals, who can establish a continuing plan for your treatment and well-being upon your return." I wonder if they made Beetee say this because they knew the words themselves would be inflammatory enough. I barely have the time to form an emotion before Johanna does it for me, again.

"We're already in contact with doctors," she snaps. She's being a little generous here. She is in regular contact with her doctor, under threat of being stripped of her ability to live alone in her district—and perhaps fueled by her own fear after what happened with the arm-cutting incident—and I know Peeta still checks in by phone with his own doctors, though as far as I know, he's abandoned all the medication that's not directly related to balancing out the brain chemicals damaged by his hijacking—no sedatives, no sleeping pills—but Haymitch is laughable and I conveniently am absent when the phone rings. Peeta, of course, has been covering for me by picking up the phone and promising the doctors that I'll call back as soon as I'm done doing whatever Healthful Activity I'm involved in at the moment. He disapproves of this to some degree, and I think he feels guilty because my medications became less of a priority to me once he and I began to iron out our difficulties, although I disliked them anyways and was only looking for an excuse to ignore them. I haven't talked to my doctors in several weeks. When I do check-in, I try to be as brief as possible and I almost never mention the worst episodes, the ones that leave me on the lawn in the cold or curled up in Gale's and my rock hollow, the dreams that make me scream.

"We're aware that some of you are more in contact with your doctors than others," Paylor says neutrally.

_Fuck_, I think. _They're on to us_.

"Regardless of this, we feel it's important that we have on file a consistent way to track your healing processes and monitor your future success."

"Why the vested interest?" Johanna asks in a tone that's very close to a sneer.

"They want to make sure they have thriving little Victors that they can show off on television," I say, before I'm aware the provocative words will emerge. Paylor actually looks a bit wounded at this, although Plutarch is wearing an expression that comes closer to being abashed and a little guilty.

"That's not entirely true," says Lyme, "Although we can't factor out that yes, we need you to be balanced enough to appeal to the citizens and stimulate their own confidence and faith in the rebuilding and the new government."

I appreciate honesty, even honesty I don't want to hear, so this soothes me even if it doesn't mollify. She continues, "We're also aware that you've suffered immensely at the hands of many who were unwilling or unable to give you the care, rest and space you have earned and need. This is why we are very appreciative that you are even able to be here with us today, make no mistake. We understand that this must be very hard for you." Because she says it, and not the others, none of whom (besides us) are Victors except Beetee (who looks serene), I believe it a little more. There is ever the dividing line between those who were in the arena and those who were not. It cannot be erased, and I feel some solidarity with her because of this.

"I don't need doctors," I say. "I'm…we're…doing fine without them."

"We are aware that you are functioning _relatively_ well back in 12 and we are pleased to hear it," says Paylor, "However, we are further aware that there have been some…setbacks…and that a regular treatment regimen, which was explicitly prescribed to you upon your relocation back to 12, has remained elusive." She sounds impatient. "While you are here it is a prime opportunity for you to visit some therapists and counselors and for your medications to be adjusted." She has no proof that I can think of that I haven't been taking mine, although I'm resentful about the implications of monitoring that are laid bare here. Haymitch has already called this, though. I hear an echo of his voice in my brain: _Do you think for one second they don't have allies in this district giving them information when they need it?_

"So thoughtful of you to keep your eyes on us," I say flatly, "But I've had just about enough input on what I should and shouldn't, can and can't, do on my own, thanks. Especially from the government. I thought part of the reason we had a war was to move beyond the government's surveillance of our every move and thought."

Haymitch breaks in, "As adults, they have free will, President. They—we—are not indebted to the Capitol to the extent that our personal choices, more than any other citizen's, have a right to be infringed upon." He diplomatically tacks on, "Although we appreciate the offer." Although he doesn't. And I don't.

"You are _not_, unfortunately, everyday citizens, Mr. Abernathy," she responds. There is a rising note of frustration under that voice which she's carefully packing back. We're so early into this meeting, and already, the tensions are spewing forth. I feel a little out-of-control.

"Don't we all know!" Johanna spits.

There's an uncomfortable silence.

Plutarch breaks it in a soothing tone, the kind you'd use with a tired child throwing a tantrum. "We do not have the capacity to force your hands in the matter, nor the desire," he says. "However, if you are working with the government, which we are very hopeful you will, we need to ask you to undergo the same evaluations that everyone else in the higher ranks, and particularly those who were instrumental in the fighting, has done. You are not being singled out." I can't help but feel that we are.

"If it is a choice between maintaining goodwill between the four of you and the Capitol and engaging in some sort of power struggle over how many times a week you check-in with a doctor and take your pills, of course, we cannot account for the latter," says Paylor, evenly. "But we will insist that you undergo secondary evaluations while you are here—all of you."

"What if we say no?" Johanna asks. She's pissed off, which is a little ironic, since she's probably the one who is most cooperative with her medical care. But she, like Haymitch and I, hates feeling forced or cornered, and it makes her claws come out. Peeta's been silent throughout. I don't think he really cares one way or the other. Because of his experience with the torture in the Capitol, like Johanna, it's dangerous for him in particular to attempt total independence from medical assistance, at least right now. He recognizes this, and he would do _anything_ they wanted if they assured him it would lower the chance of his outbursts and any consequential damage to me, though that's extremely rare now. I'm not sure why I feel this doesn't apply to Haymitch and I, except that we're stubborn. But Haymitch also has the wisdom to know when to pick his battles. "Fine," he cuts everyone off, "But once we're back in our own districts it's our decision as to what we will or won't do with the…advice…we're given. Are those who are required to submit to evaluation also monitored to make sure they're attending doctor's appointments and taking pills?"

"No," says the President. I know that she's keeping a note of begrudging hostility out of her voice only with the best effort.

"Alright then," says Haymitch in a tone of finality.

The President sighs. "Motion?" she asks. Haymitch nods. Then Peeta. Johanna and I hesitate, I glance at her, we assess one another, and then we nod in unison to this deal. It's the best I can hope for right now; the surveillance is inescapable but they have no real control over my actions once I leave this environment again, which is satisfactory enough. I'm more concerned with the meddling in my life at home, although I feel like attending some therapy session about as much as I feel like drilling a hole in my own head. Beetee nods in assent, Lyme, Plutarch, Fulvia, the two new Ministers. Gale is last.

"Tomorrow, then," says the President. "We'll arrange the details and transportation. "Now," she says impatiently, "On to the question. We obviously asked you here to serve the new government in some capacity. During the war, of course, all of you were prey to a high degree of visibility, particularly you, Katniss. Because of this, the citizenry has been confused about your recent absence from the public eye and unsure about your role in the current proceedings, which has also produced rumbles of dissent, which we would prefer to still."

"They're wondering where their Mockingjay went," I say.

"In sum, yes. Because of that we feel it's important that we reassure them that all of you are indeed still present and accounted for, and surviving…if not always thriving...now that the ceasefire has been in place. Additionally, they will expect your presence, sooner rather than later, at certain State events, such as the swearing-in of the eventual government and the war trials." I put this in the back of my mind. I can't deal with it right now, since it isn't happening this instant, and I can barely keep a hold on this instant.

"They're also…" Paylor is trying to speak delicately, a trait which differentiates her from Coin's handling of this situation, although it's ultimately futile, "…ah, wondering how your…backstory…is playing out."

"They want to know all about the lovebirds," Gale cuts in. Because I know him, I can hear the edge in his voice, being the one to bite out these words, though his voice would sound neutral to those that don't know him as well as I do.

This is, though, one of the things that troubles me least, because I'm in a much different position than I was the last time the spotlight was trained on me. Not only do I not have to fake being in love with Peeta, I also don't have to worry about either of our immediate safety, and since the miscarriage story was spread, I don't have to lie about that either. I'd rather not share the more personal details of our story, but even my hard heart can't help but be a little touched by the fact that so many are still invested in our relationship and its success. In the moment I'm a little glad that we have those tidings to report back.

"Do we have to do another interview with Caesar Flickerman?" Peeta asks, a note of irony emerging in his voice that almost makes me smile.

"Caesar Flickerman is currently being detained," says Lyme. "We were thinking more along the lines of a propo, to be aired across Panem, featuring the two of you talking about your new life together. And of course, we would like Peeta to be present with Katniss at her speech this evening." _Speech. Thanks for reminding me._ The way she says it so casually, so taken-for-granted that I'll agree, infuriates me.

"What makes you think I'm willing to shoot propos and do speeches?" I ask.

"You have a responsibility to your country," says Paylor.

"She has a responsibility to herself," Johanna grits again. She's doing a poor job of toning down her feelings thus far, and I wonder if this is her own struggle coming out—whereas I feel shaky and unstable and Peeta focuses only on helping me get through it, Johanna is drawing from her anger, the deepest and most secure technique she has assembled to get her through it all. But she, too, is trying to come to my aid, and I wonder what it is I did to deserve her doing so.

Haymitch, again, tries to insert himself between Johanna and Paylor. "With all due respect, President, Katniss Everdeen is not a paid government employee, nor is she an official representative of the government of Panem in any sort of legal context. This means she is under no technical obligation, as far as I understand it, to resume her previous position of darling media star." Even he is losing his patience already.

"However, Katniss is a titular head of this new government, which has unfortunately been the culmination of a series of events that were not all directly within her control. At the point in time when she agreed to be the Mockingjay…"

"That was under Coin, not you, and it was for the purpose of uniting the districts during the war," I cut her off.

"Do they not still need to be united?" asks Randolph. I turn my frosty gaze to him.

"Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing now that you're in charge? You can't manage it without me?"

"I would think you might be flattered to be asked," he says in a low, deep voice. I wish Boggs were here, inexplicably. I remember the protective way he layered blankets around me when I was cold, how like a father he seemed sometimes. I could use one of those. I add my father and Boggs to the mental list of people I miss right now.

"I would just as soon live my life in peace outside of the limelight," I tell him. "Not that I seem to have been given much of an option."

"You didn't have to be here," Paylor points out.

I laugh humorlessly. "Oh, yes. I could have ignored your letters for awhile. Your phone calls. Until you sent some ambassador. And then when I ignored that, until one of you dropped by on your own: 'The districts still _need_ you, Katniss. They want to know all about your suffering and your heroism and your personal relationships. They _deserve_ it.'" Johanna's sneer is creeping into my voice.

"Don't they need you?" asks Lyme quietly. I deflate. I don't know. Do they? I think of Rue's family, without meaning to. Are they still alive? Do they wonder where I am, what I'm doing? Have they healed from what was done to their daughter?

"Is Rue's family alive?" I ask abruptly. Maybe this is my way in to this. I have to try to find a way in to this that doesn't feel like I'm being coerced, if I'm going to do it.

"The little girl from 11?" Fulvia asks. I nod. _How easily they forget in the scheme of things. We're all just little people. Well, no. Not me. Too bad._ Fulvia looks at the President and then Plutarch, for some kind of confirmation. But Paylor gestures to Lyme, and it's Lyme who answers. One of her main tasks as Vice President has been to supervise the up-to-date tallies on the district populations and go through lists of the living and dead, with, I assume, an army of assistants and technology to help her organize everything, integrating the data brought back by Flora and passed along by citizens and ambassadors. I don't actually expect anyone to know the answer to my question, but I've underestimated.

"The Avis family is still alive, yes. They were transported out of their district to a safe house at personal request shortly after their district began to be bombed. We made an effort to get as many Victor's families out of the lines of fire as we could," says Lyme. She noticeably does not specify _whose_ special request this was, but I know it was for me. My heart leaps inside my chest for the first time all day. Alive. They're alive. I'm almost afraid to ask my next question.

"All of them?" There were five kids besides Rue, plus her parents. The odds were not in their favor. I remember their sorrowful faces in 11 when Peeta and I spoke, the light that dawned on them when he made his bold and dangerous gesture of promising them our food.

"All of them," Lyme says, and the wonder in my voice, or something on my face, makes her smile. I feel my eyes well up with tears that I frantically try to blink back. "Thank you," I whisper.

I look down, and everyone is silent. I need a minute to clear my head, and they give it to me. I hear footsteps padding but I don't look up as I breathe in and out, counting _one in, one out, two in, two out_ the way one of my doctors in 13 taught me. I'm trying to still my racing heart, return my mind to the question at hand—whether or not I can do this, give these speeches, be the Mockingjay again in some capacity. So I'm surprised when Gale crouches beside me. At some point Peeta's hand has moved and it's stroking the end of my braid gently, and I see Gale's eyes flick to it momentarily. They look sad, but then they refocus on my face. If I was surprised by his presence, I'm thunderstruck by his next gesture.

"We'll get them here for your speech if that will make it easier," he says. He has not consulted anyone about this. He hasn't had time to ask. I don't know if he has the clout to make claims like this. I hear a murmur of dissent swirl around the President and her crew—travel is unstable, especially from the districts hit the hardest, where limited rail lines are constantly needed for food, building materials, and transport crews, and any passenger trains are rare and scheduled months in advance. Our country's air force is still decimated, and the hovercrafts from 13 comprise most of what is left. Road travel is all but impossible. And Rue's family is almost as far out as we are.

But I look only at Gale. His eyes are dark, intense, and focused. He's lost weight, I notice. His jawline is even more prominent. Shadows lounge under his eyes—not yet circles, but circles-in-training mayhap. I gauge his sincerity, inspect his motives. I come up with nothing.

"Yeah?" I ask. When he nods, the tears spill over and I put my face in my hands.

"That's going to be impossible for tonight's speech, Gale," Beetee notes, kindly.

He touches my cheek gently and then rises, using his full height and voice, and that military posture. "Then she'll speak tomorrow," says Gale. "You got her here in that much time. You can get Rue's family out with the same haste. Notify them by phone. Pay their expenses. They won't say no. You owe them and Katniss at least that much, don't you think?" His voice is reproachful.

The room holds its breath and I can't look up. I'm thinking only about Rue and those dark-eyed siblings that I never had the chance to greet. I don't even know their names. I didn't even know _Rue's_ full name until now. I will almost certainly cry, trying to give a speech with them present. But I don't care, and I'm not going to point this out, lest it play a part in the deciding. I want to see them, touch them, hug them, tell them I'm sorry, tell them I miss her, share in their pain my pain over Prim. I may never have the chance again. I can feel the eyes on me. _One, two, three, four…_

Paylor turns to Lyme. "Make the call," she says, and inexplicably, Johanna claps.

Lyme leaves the room to make the call to Rue's family and while she's gone, Paylor gives us a chance to cool down. Gale has resumed his seat, but I rise and let go of Peeta's hand for a few minutes to walk over to him. I have eyes for only him for the first time in a long time—not the kind of eyes that I might have had, but the kind of eyes I once had. I remember the morning with the hot roll, in the rocks, sharing blackberries and Gale's treasonous talk of running away, so very, very long ago. Kids. Just kids. "Stand up," I tell him.

"Still bossy," he says, and a trace of a smile flickers. He stands up obediently, and I fling my arms around him. His come up around me, his big hand cups my head, and I lie my cheek against his chest, that body that's still so eerily familiar; the way it looks, how it smells, how it feels, the cadence of his breathing. "Thank you," I whisper.

"No problem, Catnip," he answers into my hair. I can sense him inhaling me, and his arms are like iron around me. This is his peace offering, maybe. Or maybe he just still really does love me and knows what this means to me. Maybe both. I sense someone behind me, hanging back. Gale and I break apart and his hand cups my cheek, just for a moment. My eyes must still be red. When I step back, Peeta steps forward from behind me and I feel a moment of doubt. But then Peeta extends one hand, and Gale hesitates, and then reaches out his own. They lock in the middle firmly and Peeta shakes it.

"That was really wonderful of you," Peeta says in a low voice. I know he's uncomfortable with the crowd of unfamiliar people who must be watching, although the sound of chatter doesn't dim.

"Not a problem," repeats Gale. He doesn't say anything about Peeta and I together, no word of congratulations or brotherly admonition to take care of me, but he meets Peeta's eyes. And this is something…quite a lot, really. My eyes soften looking at the two of them. I want so much…I really do…to forgive. But I remember how many years it took for me to even begin to forgive my mother. She and I were never the same, the way Gale and I will never be the same. But a little of that weight and shadow of Prim…just a tiny piece…leaves my heart.

Lyme returns and we reconvene, but the attitude in the room has lightened. Peeta smiles at me when we sit back down, leans over and kisses my cheek.

"That's settled, then," says Paylor in her no-nonsense voice. "We will reschedule Katniss' speech until tomorrow night, at which time we will have present the family of your…friend," she says to me. "Is that acceptable?" I nod. "I would still, however, like to tape the propos tonight, if that's okay with you." She looks up and her eyes flit to the other's faces. "I would also like the rest of you to be a part of that process, if you'd be willing."

But they're deferring to me in the careful silence. I'm trying to weigh whether I'll have the strength. We still have a lot more war talk to go through, the draining discussion about executions, about the Hunger Games. I glance at the clock embedded in the table: 12:30. Two and a half more hours, minus our time for lunch.

"Oh, and if it matters, Annie Cresta has volunteered to shoot her own propo alongside yours, tonight, if you agree to do the shoot," says Paylor, almost as an afterthought. I'm sure this is a calculated move, but I shoot right past my wary analysis because for a moment a tidal wave of intermingled joy and sorrow hits me, before I've even had the chance to process the news about Rue. Annie sent us a photo of her son to add to our book with a brief, sweet letter, but we haven't seen her since she returned home and we did, too. The Capitol had held a public ceremony for prominent soldiers and officials killed in combat, and she was there of course to honor Finnick—Peeta attended, too—but I spent the better part of that day barricading myself in a closet, the way I spent much of my time in 13. I wasn't ready to face any of it yet. I'm still not, really. Avoidance is a strategy that's discouraged by everyone around me, except maybe Haymitch, who has made it his sustenance too, but it's one I've been hard-pressed to surrender.

I'd assumed Annie was in 4, but Paylor continues, "She's been visiting the Capitol as part of her check-in with her doctors and in tandem with the visit from the four of you." Now I'm sure this is a card she has withheld deliberately. Annie was a part of the last vote on the Hunger Games, so I wonder why she isn't present now.

"Is her son here?" I ask breathlessly.

Paylor shakes her head, deflating my joy a little. "Nerites is yet a baby, and as such, I believe she has left him in the care of family in district 4 for the brief time that she is here. She isn't staying very long. She reacted very…strongly to being asked to sit in on these meetings, thus we're speaking with her on a private basis about these matters. She retains regular contact with the Capitol." The implication being, of course, that we do not, and have to be dragged out of our home in the woods in order for communication to occur. My idea of a good time isn't regular conference calls with Paylor 'n' crew.

_Nerites_. What a lovely name. Another name I didn't know until now. I wonder if he has Finnick's eyes. I wish I could meet him. A wave of aching loneliness washes over me for Finnick. I miss Finnick as much as Prim, some days, although I feel guilty about that. But the words about Annie and the propos still resonate inside my head like a gong. If Annie can do it, if Peeta and Johanna can... 

"Yes," I say, and I feel the strength flow into me again, such a welcome feeling. "Yes, I'll do it." Paylor looks pleased. Finally, some cooperation from her Mockingjay. But this is how it works—the give-and-take is what coaxes me out, the idea that I'm working in tandem with the others I care about, with the freedom to say yes or no. I think maybe she's finally getting wise to the way I work. It's not so dissimilar to the negotiation I made with Coin before agreeing to be _her_ Mockingjay. I'm not sure if this is good or bad. But at least it allows us to move forward. Forward is preferable to staying stuck in this room, arguing. Paylor, after noting my assent, looks to my team.

Peeta, of course, is the first one to nod, followed by Haymitch and Johanna, who looks unreadable again. An expression of trust or comfort never passes her face, but she's not mutinous. I have a feeling shooting propos is neither here nor there for her…she had a lot of time to practice being in the spotlight after being a Victor for several years beforehand. For all I know, she might even want to, since Johanna was denied the screen time after she failed her training exam back in 13, when they flooded the Block. As much as me, it might benefit the audience to see _her_ whole again. The news about the torture had long since gotten out to the citizenry and she's mostly maintained a low profile. Until now.

"Progress!" Plutarch trills, and I think how much he still aggravates me.

"Now that that's settled, unfortunately, we should move on to a discussion about what to do with the war criminals we are holding in custody," Paylor says, mercilessly pressing forward. Surprisingly, it's Beetee who pauses her. "President, it's now close to the designated time for lunch," he notes in his analytical way, "Therefore, wouldn't it make more sense to introduce this discussion when we are able to proceed full-steam ahead with it, rather than only introducing it at this point?" Paylor sighs. Clearly, she would have us push on right through lunch if we would. But she looks to Lyme, as her second-in-command, and Lyme nods. "I think he has a point," she says. I say a silent thank-you inside my head that she is the one that Paylor chose to work alongside. She is clearly an ally to us. I wonder if she, too, feels that bond amongst Victors that I feel.

I let out a long breath and my shoulders drop as Paylor makes the announcement, "All right, everyone, let's take a break. Food is available in the commissary down the stairs and to the left. I expect everyone back by 13:45 on the nose!" This gives us an hour, which seems even lavish under her strict rules of order. As soon as her voice quiets, Peeta reaches out to me and pulls me gently onto his lap. I wrap my arms around him and lean in close. We don't say anything, though there is much to say. I listen to his heartbeat for a moment, close my eyes, block out everything in the world but him. My emotions are roiling, and he must know it. He smoothes back the strands of hair at my temples. "Okay?" he asks softly.

"Okay," I answer. And I am. And he is. And we're here, and that's something.


	18. Past Made Present

***Hi, all! I've gotten the super-cool opportunity to be interviewed about TL&N by JenieZee for her Tumblr blog! I was sure no one would care would I had to say about my fanfic, but she's assured my otherwise, so I hope you enjoy! It was really fun. Thanks to the awesome JenieZee! The website address for the interview is in my profile and it's filled with lots of insider secrets. ;) Enjoy!

I need to get some air. I bet they think they're the only ones that feel stifled in that grandiose, window-free room filled with gadgetry, but being familiar with it doesn't make me like it any better. I wonder if Katniss remembers that I, too, used the woods as my escape. They were just a source of sustenance for neither of us, but a place to pause and breathe, to catch our breath and steel ourselves to take on the challenges of living in District 12.

There are challenges here, too. Lately I'm distressed by, of all things, how easily I've seemed to fit in. I always held myself above everyone who lives here; held them in contempt. Now I'm forced to hold myself in contempt. I remember my sneer at Katniss' concern over her prep team's health in District 13, those self-absorbed pets. The tales she told me about the parties where tiny crystal goblets would be distributed in the bathrooms. It made their beautiful Capitol bathrooms smell like vomit, she'd said.

"Vomit covered in artificial flowers!" I remember the incredulous tone in her voice. We'd laughed. That was after the Victory tour, just before everything went to hell. Well. Before everything went to hell _again_, anyways.

Peeta's scooped her into his arms again, and I can tolerate the sight of it but I don't enjoy it much, so I climb the marble stairs to where the sunrays pour in through the main front door. Johanna has beaten me upstairs; she regards me coolly, leaning against a marble pillar and smoking. The thick, delicious scent of good tobacco rolls towards me. She sees me eying her smoke and shakes a pack loose from her belt, flipping it open with her thumb.

"Want one?" she invites. I oblige. She produces a silver lighter and I hold the smoke in my teeth as she flicks the flame out for me. I take her wrist to steady it and we study one another for a minute. Johanna's tapping one boot obsessively on the lintel. We move aside so that Fulvia and Plutarch can pass. Plutarch beams obliviously at Johanna. When he passes, she closes her big brown eyes briefly and knits her eyebrows together in weariness, a gesture that would be comic if it didn't reflect my own emotional state.

"Want to take a walk?" she asks. She arches an eyebrow. "Unless you're afraid of me." I remember that moment in Peeta's hospital room and a small smile escapes me. She gestures in front of me and I exit the veranda and hook a right around the building, and then a left at the back onto a walking path fringed with overhanging birches and aspens. They're decorative, I've discovered. They're fed all kinds of chemicals to help them stay greener, produce more blossoms, and to stunt their growth so they stay airy and romantic. These are the kinds of facts I try to forget when I'm sitting at dinner with the Cabinet in a silk shirt and jacket. I still don't know how I got here. Katniss' presence is bringing back all the old memories, standing in such sharp contrast to my own recent experiences.

_It's better for your mother and the kids that you followed them here._ This is true. My family has a better life now than they could ever have dreamt of. They're held in high esteem. The kids attend school and have enough food and warmth, and my mother has been part of a team that's helping restore the insides of houses that were damaged during the war, so that emigrating families from the districts will have places to live. We have the kind of life that I always imagined was possible once we'd escaped the tyranny of the Capitol's rule. I just didn't think we'd have it here.

I've walked this path many times so my feet move over the dips and rises in the packed earth without my thinking about it. Johanna has been ambling along beside me, trailing her fingers over the low wooden fence and smoking. I breathe.

"This must be hard for you," I say. I can't think of anything else. I say it mostly to have something to say. My mind is still so preoccupied with Katniss' physical proximity. _She'll be eating with Peeta, of course._

"You can't do any better than that?" Johanna snorts promptly. I stop. She's looking at me with ill-disguised derision.

"Fine," I say. Johanna shares the trait with Katniss and I that she doesn't really play games…_not the kind other people play, anyways_. She has no desire or aptitude at disguising her emotions. I don't know her backstory, but whatever led up to her collision with Katniss has made her hard as nails and twice as sharp.

"How long has that been going on?" I ask her. I don't know I'm going to ask this until I actually hear the words emerging.

"I don't owe you any loyalty," she replies, although complacently.

I sigh. "Please, Johanna."

"What did you expect, Gale?" I don't remember if I've ever heard her say my name before. We're not really friends. As a wildcat in the hospital siphoning Katniss' morphling drip, so long ago, she used to flirt with me, but we've never interacted much without Katniss as a buffer.

We walk in silence for a few minutes. The sounds of the city have faded away. Bright spring birds twitter above out heads. I glance at my communicuff. We've used up 20 of our 60 minutes. I run one hand over my eyes, tiredly, distracted. Johanna's moved ahead of me a bit and as I make this gesture, her eyes flick up to me. She stops and turns to regard me. I raise my eyebrows at her.

Johanna reaches her hands out—fingernails chewed to stubs, I note, and no ornamentation—and places them up high on my shoulders. My attention has returned.

"Look, Gale," she says. "It's not going to happen."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply.

"Don't act stupid," she says sharply, "I'm not saying this again. I don't even know why I'm saying this now. If you want to do kind things for her because you love her, fine. By all means. That was nice of you and I'm sure she's appreciative. But don't do it because you want her back, not even in the furthest corner of your mind." Her voice is firm and clear and slow. Her brow is furrowed as she concentrates on me. I try to keep my face impassive, no small feat at her next words. "She's in love with him," she continues. "He adores her, and he's good to her, and they're rebuilding one another. Let her have that shot. Give _yourself_ a shot. She wants to forgive you. But you have to let her go."

"What do you care?" I ask, but my voice is exhausted. I don't have the energy to keep this stiff, formal, poised front up for the rest of the afternoon. I wonder who else in that room is actually feeling as bad as we all seem to be under the cool exteriors.

She laughs. "If I had friends…well, Katniss is as close as I've come to having a friend in a long time. I don't have faith in romance and love stories and happy endings…" Her eyes flick away to the trees and then back to me, "But I'd like to hope that we're all finding some kind of peace, and she's…she's better with him. They're stronger together than either one of them is alone." She looks at me.

I shy away from the feeling of pain that wells up inside me. I'm angry that I've let it affect me so much after all this time. I've had enough time to heal. I have no shortage of female company here; there are plenty of beautiful Capitol girls with long, shiny hair and long, slender legs who serve at the functions we attend, who take part in my mother's rebuilding crew, who teach at the school where my siblings attend classes. I've had my share of women in my bed since I came here. It doesn't make me forget. Sometimes, in the middle of these encounters, I close my eyes and think of Katniss.

"How'd you sleep?" Johanna asks. I wish I didn't understand the context of this question. I'd slept over at the boardinghouse in a downstairs room for simplicity last night, but I won't be doing it again.

"I heard enough," I say. She steps back and for just a second, bites her bottom lip hard. Then her face resolves again. "Yeah. Wish you hadn't. This must be hard for you."

Despite everything, I smile. She smiles back.

"Want lunch?" I ask her.

"Yeah," she says, and we make an about-face and head back. "I better check on Katniss. That really was a nice thing you did for her. She's holding it together pretty well but it's hard. It's taken so much time for her to build back up to facing the past." This information, unasked-for, feels like a sort of reward. I drink it up like cold water on a hot day, any information about what's going on with her.

"She seems like she has a lot of help," I say. I try to keep the envy out of my voice, but fail. I shut myself off from everyone but my family and my work when I came here. Katniss was the only really close friend I had in 12, anyways. I feel a stab of homesickness nevertheless.

"She _needs_ a lot of help," Johanna says. "She'd die before she admitted it, though." This exchange feels strange even to me. I realize I haven't heard a peep from Johanna about her own experiences since the war ended. Just radiating hostility and the little blue pills she pops when she thinks no one is looking. I miss little, after the war. Ironically, only Katniss remains shrouded to me.

"How are you?" I ask, with genuine curiosity this time. Johanna and I owe each other no favors, but she's treating me like, if not a friend, at least not an enemy. She seems to consider this. I shoot a glance at her. She's slight, petite almost, with short hair sticking up in crazy spikes, long eyelashes and boyish hips and big combat boots. Her army fatigue-print pants are slung low and a knife stowed at her waist. The first few buttons of her black cotton shirt are unbuttoned and a delicate curve of collarbone peeps out. She's put on muscle since those long-ago days in 13, but her eyes get a hazy, distant quality to them sometimes, as if she's blanked out for a moment or two, gone into some secret world. She shrugs noncommittally.

"I'm here, aren't I?" she replies. I sense that she doesn't really want to answer this question. I give her a minute and nothing else comes forth.

"How's home?" I try again.

"Wish I were there now," she answers, and falls silent again. I don't push it. We're arriving back to the Capitol building anyways. Johanna ticks off a saucy salute to me. I thank her for the smoke and she drifts away up the porch.

Johanna returns to Katniss and Peeta, who are sitting on the opposite corner of the stairs in a sunbeam, a lunch tray—a single lunch tray—on the stair beside their feet, crystal glasses of tea balanced on top. They're holding hands. Johanna plops down beside them and grabs an apple off the tray, taking a deep bite, and Peeta asks her something, glancing back at me in curiosity. Johanna replies, making some broad gesture with her hands, but I spare a single sidelong glance at Katniss, those fragile wisps of hair that always escape her braid that my fingers spent years yearning to push behind her ears, forearms on her bent knees as she leans forward to listen, before I'm back under the shade of the eaves. The taste of tobacco lingers in my mouth, but I'm not really hungry. I'm loathe to return to the War Room, though, so once I'm inside I continue across the foyer and upwards, climbing the stairs until I find a shadowed alcove in the hall, and sit on the carpet, my back against the embellished wallpaper, to wait for the rest to return.

I almost drift off, sitting in the quiet. It's the loud voice of Fulvia calling us back that jolts me out of a half-doze. The prospect of returning to the council meeting is distinctly unpleasant. I rub my face with one sleeve, trying to erase any marks that might be there from my slump against the wall. I feel groggy. I take a short walk down the hall to the restroom and splash my face with cold water from the ornate taps, forged in the shape of lions' heads—at least I think they're lions. I stare at myself in the mirror. My shoulders are up around my ears and I force the tension down, pull them back, stand up straight. My face is an unreadable mask, even to myself. I lick residual droplets of water off my lips and sigh, closing my eyes for just one more moment, before surrendering to the relentless plod of this day.

People are still drifting in when I re-enter the room, my hands clasped at the small of my back in order to remind me about my re-engagement. Randolph and Flora are engaged in an animated conversation about some reported food shortages in 2. Fulvia is trilling animatedly to Plutarch about this afternoon's propo shoot. As I take my seat next to Beetee, the trio from the stairs filters in and resumes their seats. Katniss tucks her legs up under her and sits on them, still small in the deep War Room chair. A painful memory shoots through my head, but it takes a second to place it—Katniss and Peeta on that ridiculous stage with Caesar Flickerman, curled up on the loveseat after the 74th Hunger Games, during the recap. Her posture was just so, then. She looks a little pale, but her face is set in the stubborn lines I associate with determination and occasional defiance. Johanna looks impassive, but her fingertips, like her toes, drum impatiently on the tabletop. Of the three of them, only Peeta sits back, his feet planted firmly on the floor, his body subtly angled towards Katniss at all times, as if to shield her. The two of them flank Katniss, as before. I'm too weary to feel jealous anymore. Johanna's advice rings in my head, making it ache. I try to catch Katniss' eyes but she's staring off at some fixed point in space. Tuning everyone out, maybe, like at breakfast. We have a little over two more hours in here and then it's out to the propos. Because of my suggestion about Rue's family, tonight will be blessedly shorter, though. The day already seems interminable.

Just as Paylor, who has been sitting calmly regarding us all, stands to call everyone back to attention, Haymitch slouches in. He looks ill-tempered and I wonder if he was hoping for something harder than tea at the lunch buffet. I could have warned him in advance. Alcohol and intoxicating substances are never permitted in State buildings, on State grounds, or at any State-associated meeting, event or training, not even dinners and holidays. The new government permits it for personal use for citizens over legal age, but public drunkenness is grounds for citation and repeated infractions can lead to one's name being placed on a register of those "unfit for sale." It's the closest they've come to a compromise. Haymitch looks sour, and slumps into his chair next to Peeta just at the President begins to speak.

"Thank you for returning on time and I hope you enjoyed our well-earned rest," she says, "And are ready to continue with this afternoon's discussion." _Discussion is a word for it, I guess._ "Next on the agenda is the matter of the possibility of executions of war criminals. As a relevant point of history, it should be noted that the democracies after which we are modeling our current system of government had divergent views on whether or not execution—"capitol punishment," as it was then known—should be a possible punishment for a criminal. There was further debate on what crimes made a criminal eligible for this punishment, although it was commonly reserved for outstanding crimes such as murder and great personal violence. There is a known history of war criminals being executed for their crimes across various wars known to us today, but this practice was by no means universal. As an alternative, many criminals were simply imprisoned for the remainder of their lives, though this frequently cost the citizens a great deal in upkeep fees. This discussion is occurring in order to garner feedback about whether or not there is a vested interest in capitol punishment for those who are convicted of war crimes, and if yes, what type of crimes and criminals are eligible."

Peeta asks, "Are all accused parties going to be tried by a court?"

"Yes," replies Paylor promptly. "The court will be composed of a jury of citizenry coming from all districts and the Capitol, plus an impartial judge who will weigh the evidence and the jury recommendations and submit them to a final council for approval. Everyone in this room will be consulted once these trials are complete and a list of results is distributed. If necessary, we will converse remotely about this matter. We are ultimately hoping to achieve unilateral agreement amongst the three involved branches about what the final outcome should be."

"What are you looking at for time?" asks Haymitch. I can't tell if he's asking this so he knows how long of a reprieve he'll have after this discussion, or if he's trying to make sense of the scale of the matter.

"Full trials could take months to complete," says Plutarch, a note of resignation in his voice, a note befitting a former Gamemaker eager to deal out death-blows, I think with disgust. Must be getting bored with no more kids to drown or blow up or watch starve. I can never quite let this fact go, despite his complicity in the movement against the Capitol and his position now. I glance quickly at Katniss, and a look of undisguised relief flits quickly across her face before she can compose it again. More time. I feel a little pity in my heart, for the way that this government will want to continue to disturb the lives of people who would opt of participation otherwise. I'm not dragged periodically from my home, of course; I opted in to this life of power and prestige. The four bodies around the table from me radiate a sense of resignation. They've had enough prestige for one lifetime.

Paylor nods in response to Plutarch's comment. "We're just here to assess what forms of punishment are options, so that this information can be passed along to the trial juries and judges, who are being selected now, and for what crimes such ultimate forms of punishment can be used."

"Alright," says Katniss. Surprising me, she takes the lead. "The four of us have agreed previously that we think executions should be an option of punishment for certain groups of people associated with war crimes." The others nod curtly in response.

Paylor looks nonplussed. I'm not surprised either that the four of them have had previous conversations about what would happen once they got here. Together they certainly have brains and understanding to spare when it comes to generally predicting what topics would arise. "Have you discussed which groups of people this encompasses?" she asks. This time it's Haymitch who answers.

"We have agreed that this should include all those who were directly involved in sanctioning or carrying out the torture, mutilation or murder of district or Capitol citizens or soldiers, either intentionally or by neglect."

"Even those who were carrying out direct orders?" asks Beetee.

"Yes," Katniss snaps savagely.

"There is a certain question around their ability to freely act with their own potential safety, and that of their loved ones, at risk," Lyme chips in. "Many of those currently detained are insistent that they were threatened with torture or death themselves, or their families were, if they did not carry out these orders. This should be taken into consideration."

Katniss' hackles are rising but Peeta puts a hand over hers and she exhales slowly. I can see her trying to reason with herself, flatten out the rising temper. Johanna's eyes are narrowed. Clearly, the two of them want no mercy shown in this area.

"Those who were murdered or mutilated by others carrying out orders are just as murdered or mutilated," Katniss says evenly. "I don't think it matters much to them for what reasons. The people who tortured Peeta…" her voice is rising despite herself, "…should be held personally responsible for their actions regardless of how they came about."

"And they shall be," says Paylor firmly, meeting Katniss' gaze levelly and calmly, "But the question on the table is, have they forfeited their very lives?"

I stay silent on the matter for the moment. I want the first input to come from the other end of the table, to drink in what the Victors' viewpoints are. From the first whispered conversations that unfolded between Katniss and myself during our hunting trips in District 12 over the years, my viewpoint has been clear. I have no moral qualms about the obliteration of anyone and everyone in the Capitol who was connected with the suffering that occurred both before and during the war. I told Katniss this many times, and it hasn't changed. Despite what happened with Prim, an incident for which I'll never fully forgive myself, I still have to believe that we were only doing what we had to do to survive—that our actions in retaliation against the Capitol, even if they resulted in the same consequences, were driven by necessity and desperation and are excusable. We were driven into a corner. An animal driven into a corner will raise its hackles, bear its teeth, bite, scratch, fight back, fight to kill if need be. This is what we did; we were the cornered animals and the Capitol the armed hunters bearing down on us with bombs and guns. The choices I made during the war were never easy, but when I accepted the offer of coming to work with Beetee here after the war had ended, I also accepted my own role in retaliation. "Warrior Gale," they called me, jokingly, in my training unit back in 13. I refuse to cede that we could have done different. We're out. That's all that matters to me, in the end. I have no heart for those in detainment. But this is well-known, so I sit back and listen.

"Would they have shown **us** mercy, if we had lost the war?" queries Johanna snidely, breaking my train of thought.

"Do you think we should try to be like them?" asks Lyme quietly in return.

This silences everyone for a moment.

"Can we agree on certain groups of people immediately that should be subject to this form of punishment?" asks Randolph reasonably.

"I would say that the most likely candidates would be the dozen or so Cabinet Ministers composing President Snow's closest governmental allies and all commanding generals of the war's foot-soldier and air-traffic divisions," suggests Paylor.

Katniss and Johanna are nodding, Haymitch is looking watchful, and Peeta is quiet beside them. I raise my eyebrows in assent at the President. Beetee nods, too.

"Is that an acceptable proposition, that these highest-ranking military and government officials be tried with the possibility of execution?" asks Paylor. She's remaining calculatedly neutral in this conversation, I note.

Plutarch and Fulvia look slightly uncomfortable, a reality that doesn't surprise me, much, since they were probably in closer proximity to the people we're discussing only abstractly. I know that there'll be a full-on mutiny, though, if we can't reach some kind of compromise over the capitol punishment issue, and not just from the District 12 side of the table. Lyme is playing peacemaker but I'm aware there's been a loose consensus that this form of punishment is at least in some cases, applicable.

Katniss gives a glance around at her group and I know that they've elected her de facto leader, and that she's chosen, since this morning, to step up to the task.

"Yes," she answers, for all of them.

"Motion?" asks Paylor, and looks placidly at us. My hand is first, but Beetee is close. Slowly, Randolph nods and lifts his. I know, too, from my new place as an insider privy to insider chatter, that Flora has been hesitant to take this step. But she's looking resigned, because Flora is smarter than she lets on and she knows already she'll be outgunned, and would rather not be the last holdout. I doubt she'd be anyways because even when her hand finally does take its place in the air, Plutarch and Fulvia are still squirming slightly. I marvel again at how easily perturbed the man can be, when his former employment involved devising entertaining ways to kill kids. Katniss is looking his way with outright contempt. He doesn't spot it, but Fulvia does and even cows a little beneath it. Haymitch's face is resolved in lines as hard as stone. Their hands rise. Paylor and Lyme are the last holdouts, and I know this was intentional. They wanted to see how it would play out with us. Though they have the power between them to override all of us—despite the mutiny that would ensue—they nod in tandem.

"Motion carried," says Paylor. I remember that she and Lyme are foremost, generals, not civilians. Their blood rises with a battle. They're not afraid to make tough calls and they're familiar with the concept of triage. As newfound politicians, they're also familiar with the concept of compromise, and this agreement gives them leverage for what follows.

The discussion moves back and forth from there over what should be done with the "lesser" offenders—military captains, head Peacekeepers, the squads of soldiers whose assignments included torturing prisoners of war. Higher-value prisoners, like Johanna and Peeta, Paylor informs us, were nearly always kept under lock and key by the sort of advanced level military operatives that are likely to be included in our original motion, but many others—like the Avoxes and I—experienced their torture, mutilation and humiliation under lesser soldiers. This is where the debate grows more heated, with Lyme maintaining the position that soldiers' primary obligations are to follow orders, particularly in cases where their own safety is threatened if they defect, and that though these soldiers should be punished for moral failure, they should not be subject to the possibility of execution. Katniss, of course, flares up at this, insisting that we, too, were soldiers who were given orders, and often disobeyed them—Haymitch's mouth twitches—to do what we thought was right. Additionally, Johanna correctly points out that many of the Capitol's soldiers _did_ defect before the end of the war to join our cause, and are now pardoned for doing so. Theoretically, this option was open to all, even those who didn't take it. Paylor counters that those soldiers who were most important to the Capitol's cause were kept under much tighter guard than those Peacekeepers and field soldiers who, scattered throughout the districts, could be absorbed into the fray and protected by fellow allied fighters. It goes on like this for awhile.

Eventually, it's Paylor who rises into her Presidential role again after 75 minutes of heated debate, as she glances at the large metal-and-glass clock floating beneath the table. 15:15. Our limited time is drawing short.

"I motion that we apply a general standard that second- and third-tier operatives be regarded as generally immune from capitol punishment…"

A clamor begins at our end of the table and she raises her voice firmly, continuing.

"…except in special circumstances to be determined by evidence hearings and the recommendations of jurors. Conceivably, this can include such crimes as the torture of children, which will bring past Gamemakers under sanctions…"

Katniss looks slightly mollified.

"If extraordinary circumstance is demanded by both judge and jury, the capitol punishment option will be re-engaged before final punishment is determined. This is not to say that it will always be _used_ in such circumstances, as we will stress that this is not generally to be considered an appropriate punishment at this level unless extraordinary evidence emerges that suggests the contrary. Early rulings will be used to set precedents for later cases, for example, in terms of Gamemakers. Let's say, around a six-month mark from here we will reconvene and evaluate the results of the trials and the sentences and affirm or deny them. Sentences considered by the council to be incorrect or inadequate will be returned to the lower courts to be reconsidered. All accused parties, judges, juries and the general public will receive transparency about the process as it unfolds, as will all at this table and other upper-Cabinet members, as well as the Congress. The option of life in prison will be maintained within all these trials at any level."

We're all listening attentively until she stops speaking. I have time to admire her handiwork—this is a well thought-out and comprehensive attempt at mollification and compromise. I do think she is a good President, although I suspect trust in any form of established government leadership will be slow coming from the Victors clustered at the end of the table.

It's Peeta who speaks up, though he's been very quiet throughout. "Where will final approval reside?" he asks.

"Final approval will reside with the vice-President and I," says Paylor, and I hear another rumbling of displeasure.

"**However**_,_" Paylor continues pointedly, "No execution sentence will be carried out without two-thirds agreement across the three units of judge, citizens' jury, and the council present in this room. If we cannot reach two-thirds consensus, the maximum sentence will remain life in prison. This will allow us to balance all decisions."

"Let's get this straight," Haymitch cuts in. "Former Capitol generals of war, both land- and air-based, and Ministers and advisors in Snow's council, including the vice-President, will be eligible for death. The trying judge and jury will be informed of this."

Paylor nods.

"Head Peacekeepers, Gamemakers, captains in the war, and soldiers' brigades who were assigned to and did carry out torture and mutilation will generally be subject to life in prison, as determined by judge and jury, as a maximum sentence."

Paylor nods.

"However, the judge and jury may make special requests to waive this rule if evidence suggests that the person's deeds warrant more severe punishment. In this case, the decision will be handed up to the council in this room and a final decision will be made. In six months we will reconvene to examine these results. If this council can't come to an agreement on a case, our recommendation will ultimately come directly from yourself and Commander Lyme."

Paylor nods a third time, not correcting Lyme's title.

"Our recommendation will be returned to the lower courts for a final ruling, and whatever the two-thirds majority decides on as a punishment—judge, jury and ourselves, will carry the day."

"Yes," replies the President.

Katniss surprises me. "Okay," she says. I wonder if she, like me, is tired. The unlikely pair of Peeta and I have been quietest during this ongoing and vociferous debate, for an amusing set of reasons—everyone at the table knows that I'm supportive of the most extreme forms of punishment, and everyone here thinks that Peeta is usually loathe to resort to them, though he'll throw his lot in with his allies in the end. Still, I'd be interested to know what's going on in his head. That experience of being tortured here cannot have left him unscathed in terms of showing leniency with these monsters. Nor can what was done to our district…and to Katniss, of course. I will never deny that Peeta loves Katniss with every fiber in his being—a fact that makes it nearly impossible for me to resent him at the end of the day. I know he's protecting her. I know what Johanna said is right—it would be selfish for me to intervene in any way, large or small, passive-aggressive or overt, when they're finally building the life Katniss deserves to have, even if it's not with me.

"Motion?" asks Paylor. This one passes faster. Johanna looks a little unhappy. Plutarch looks relieved, Beetee serene. I try to keep my face unreadable. Katniss glances at me, though, and I give her a little nod, as if to reassure. Peeta's hand goes up early. I think he, maybe of all of us except the President, can appreciate the compromise. Haymitch just seems loyal to Katniss today, and the Ministers seem to think this is fair.

"Motion passed," says Paylor, and a collective sigh, almost comical, escapes the table. We adjourn for a five minute break. Katniss stretches her arms over her head, twisting this way and that as she stands beside her chair. The break is not really long enough for us to do anything more than stretch and perhaps walk outside the doors for a drink of water, but the council session is almost at a close. I know enough about what will come next to assume the last part will pass quickly—more quickly than the Victors suspect, no doubt. Propo shooting will come after. That will no doubt be interesting.

Katniss sits on Peeta's good knee and his arms encircle her waist lightly. I think about the faint sounds that emerged from behind their closed door this morning, the ones Johanna alluded to. Want still flares in my body as I imagine Katniss, mentally erasing Peeta, gloriously naked and stretched out upon soft sheets and blankets, drenched by morning sunrays, her eyes hazy O's of pleasure. Fire surges through my fingers and toes and I have to turn away.

When we return, everyone is drooping, even Johanna, whose energy level is usually admirable, fueling an amazing level of acerbic rebuttal. I'm glad that this part has almost ended. Paylor takes her place at the end of the table.

"Our meeting has just about come to an end for today, but there is one final thing that is left to discuss," she says.

"The Hunger Games," says Peeta wearily.

Paylor nods. "Yes. There's been a bit of talk about that since the new government has come into its own over the past few months. We are aware that a previous vote stands where there was some support for staging a final arena, to be populated by the children of high-ranking military war criminals as a type of public punishment. At that time, several of you indicated that you supported this plan."

Katniss, Haymitch and Peeta are quiet. Johanna nods. My gaze sharpens at this.

"We hoped to broach a new thought today, which is this. My administration, including the vice-President and the Ministers who are present at this table, have conversed about this topic at length. It is our consensus that at this time, holding such an event would do more harm than good, undermining the dissimilarity between this government and the former regime which we've tried so hard to highlight, drawing potential criticism for hypocrisy and barbarism, and bringing to light old memories that would be better left buried. Crews are in the process now of converting old arenas to memorial sites rather than tourist attractions, and this too would seem to run contrary to building a new arena. We believe ultimately that the decision to stage a 76th Games would do more harm than good to the new government, and likely be seen as a petty action taken in spite rather than an example of honest justice. For this reason, we are disinclined at this time to see this come to fruition. Of course, we are open to hearing your opinions."

Katniss takes a breath and lets it out very slowly. When she speaks it's with deliberation, but Peeta looks pleased and so gives it away. "Haymitch, Peeta and I have come to previous consensus before attending this meeting that it would be undesirable to continue the Hunger Games in this new era," she says. "Johanna…"

Johanna speaks up, as Katniss is unwilling to speak for her. "I disagree," she says. "I feel that it would be a powerful message to send to barbarians about the damage they've done to all of us, and I have no qualms about using their children. **But **I'll respect a consensus." I see her squeeze Katniss' hand on the table. I know that Johanna would have fought to the death to see this occur if the consensus she speaks of were happening only at our end of the table. What she respects is _Katniss'_ consensus. I wonder if Katniss ever did come to realize the affect she has on people; how much others have looked to her as a leader. Even Haymitch has stood behind her all day today, though he's looked surly and itching for a drink. No one from her group has contradicted or challenged her—if this was done, it was done in the meetings that occurred before we all came together. They've worked in tandem like a team of well-trained oxen. I can't help but admire the precision of it, the insight of forming a plan together before these ideas were on the table.

Paylor looks to Beetee and I with her eyebrows raised and I realize the silence has held for a few minutes.

"Beetee and I disagree as well," I say, standing, "But like Johanna, we're willing to accept that we're outnumbered. Annie Cresta has also expressed the view that further Hunger Games would be unnecessary and destructive." Actually, Annie had begun to shake her head violently, shivering, and make a low sound of negation—_nnnnnnn—_when we'd broached the subject, but the meaning was clear enough, and Paylor backed off. Everyone is kind to Annie and understands and respects her fragility with gentleness. It feels less like interacting with fine crystal anymore, but she doesn't have that steel core of wire that brings Katniss and Johanna and even Peeta through, whatever fire they have to walk to get to the other side. Annie is almost like a child.

"Well?" asks Lyme.

"Motion to table the Hunger Games at this juncture," says Paylor. Randolph, Flora, Lyme, Paylor, Haymitch, Katniss, and Peeta raise their hands. Plutarch and Fulvia's hands rise in tandem, though I have time to think, _I wonder if he's glad his friends' kids won't be dying or sorry he doesn't get the honor of staging the event._

"Nos?" asks Paylor. Beetee, Johanna and I raise our hands. "Let the record note no votes from Gale Hawthorne, Johanna Mason and Beetee Keehn," Paylor says into a microphone built into the table, which records the proceedings. "Affirmative votes…" and she lists all the names. This discussion has been a heated one and the serenity of the vote here belies it—I respect my President as a soldier and so I honor her and Commander Lyme's decision, but I vociferously disagreed in the debates that led to this moment. Sometimes I'm disappointed in myself and the bloodlust that hangs in the back of my throat, unslaked. I felt triumph in my heart like a shard of steel when we defeated the Capitol army and killed the President who we so loathed and who so made our early lives hell, but a bitterness lingers. Warrior Gale. I always had a cause; all I needed were the means. Now all the means have been laid at my feet. I get a sort of savage pleasure out of designing weaponry, which is challenging work requiring concentration and problem-solving. I like working with Beetee. I don't much concentrate on what these weapons will be used for, only in perfecting them. I am glad for our new governance and I think that as of yet, it is fair, but government in general, I feel that all of us may distrust forever in our deepest hearts. I feel contradictory, building weapons for a government that could one day use them against us. My justification comes, of all places, from Beetee, because I remember how he absorbed the Capitol's knowledge and then wielded it against them with a kind of ultra-focused force that helped destroy an arena, set Katniss free, and bolster an emergent government to the degree that it ensnared the hearts and minds of all of Panem. I know having this kind of knowledge, being one of the only few who _does_ have it, makes me feel safer, even if it is in the service of another government. I suspect Beetee feels the same.

Ultimately, I could understand the President's reasons, which were made with a cooler head than mine, with more care and caution. Given the time to calm down and be soothed by Peeta's pacifism, so different from my bellicosity, I can't be too surprised that Katniss' frame of mind has changed. She doesn't want to be immersed again in something so painful, I'm sure, or to be party to it. I believe my conscience could survive the test of watching the results of my decision. Having been through it herself, twice, she and the others are not in the same place. I will always have to accept that this rift is permanent—the cluster at the end of the table did not form by accident or even geography, but by shared experience that I lack.

"Motion to adjourn," says Randolph.

"Motion carried," says Paylor. "At this time…"

It's 16:00, and as we stand and stretch again I think about how now it'll be time for propo preparation, making all these exhausted faces look shiny and new again. Katniss looks strained and I have doubts about the wisdom of trying to accomplish this after having already spent a full day in reports and meetings. I don't have to consider this for too long, though, because as Paylor begins to speak, a Capitol aide hurries up to her side, bows low and respectfully, and begins to speak quietly into her left ear. I know it's a high-ranking Ministerial aide because they all wear red uniforms. This one is a young woman with flaxen hair that falls past her waist in a curtain of gold. Paylor listens and frowns, asks a quiet question. The girl shakes her head and speaks again. This goes on a moment.

Paylor speaks out again, loudly, getting the attention of the group, which has begun to wander as people slowly edge around the table and towards the stairs, talking in clusters.

"It seems we will have to adjust our schedule for the evening once more," she says, an undertone of frustration in her voice. The room goes quiet. "There's a matter regarding a food shortage that needs to be managed immediately, and I'll need to meet with my council." She looks towards the cluster of Ministers and Plutarch, who nods. Fulvia looks put-out at missing her anticipated propo shoot.

"Given the amount of time that this will take to resolve, my feeling at this point in the day is that the rest of the day's activities should be postponed for early tomorrow morning," she says. "I will release a new schedule and have it distributed to you this evening, however, you should prepare to wake early, as we still have propos to shoot and an address for Katniss to give. The Avis family should be arriving by midday as promised."

The President looks resigned but she adds, "I should add that you all should make sure to have a good rest tonight, since you've more than earned it today. Tomorrow will be another full day. We will have dinner delivered to your quarters tonight and shift our official dinner to tomorrow. Of course, it will still be possible for you to depart the following day, should everything happen in a timely manner."

There is a look of almost universal relief, though Randolph and Lyme look concerned. I remember their earlier discussion about District 2. This is not my area so I will not be privy to this information, but I am curious. It must be serious for Paylor to postpone the rest of today when it's only a little after 16:00. I'm not going to complain.

"Let's meet here at 8 AM tomorrow morning," says Paylor. "We will disperse from here in order to prepare you for propos. She turns to the respectful red-clad aide, still waiting. "Please contact Annie Cresta about the change in plans." The aide nods and immediately turns neatly on the spot to follow orders.

I don't remember the last time the cool evening air felt so sweet on my face. I turn it up to the sky and close my eyes. Katniss' birthday is coming up next month. I should send her something but at the moment, I can't imagine what it would be. She emerges just behind me and I check my posture automatically. Like always when I'm nervous these days, I clasp my hands behind my back to stand up straighter. She's conversing with Johanna—it sounds like they're talking about evening plans—and Peeta is just behind them, speaking quietly to Haymitch in a more serious tone. All four of them look far more relaxed now that they're out for the day. _Like children when summer vacation begins_.

Katniss stops and regards me. Those grey eyes never seemed so multifaceted—not one flat color, but subtle tones of silver that seem to shift like clouds.

"Would you like to have dinner with us?" she asks, a little formally. I want to say yes, but I know inside I can't.

"I'm going to head home for the night, I think," I reply. "Thank you for the invitation, though." I smile to her, though it feels hard. I'm sad. I move to turn away, but at the moment before I do, she calls me back.

"Gale?" I look back. Peeta's taken her hand. Johanna is behind her, her chin resting on Katniss' shoulder companionably. I feel lonelier than ever looking at them. Haymitch has moved on ahead.

"We can find some time to talk, if you still want to." And then she gifts me with the smile that only Prim and I used to be able to coax out, once upon a time.

"I'd like that," I say. I can feel her watching me when I turn away again to walk home.

That night when I take the chrome-and-black elevator up to the high-rise apartment that I inhabit by myself, filled with tasteful modern furniture in black and white and steel and glass, almost sparse, like barracks, my toes out of their boots sink into the plush white carpeting. The glass doors overlook a whole panorama of city lights below me and I stand on the balcony in the late spring breeze and inhale, the sounds of laughter and traffic drifting up from far below.

When I slide the doors closed and retire to my room, my bed, made with the military precision with which I've become accustomed, looks enormous, all its corners sharp, the fireplace in the corner—square marble and lit by a button, no flagstones and woodsmoke—empty. The tasteful muted lighting illuminates the silence, and I sink to my knees beside my bed as though I were about to pray. I put my face in my hands and cry. I don't remember the last time I cried. Katniss has never seen me cry the way I do now. My mother has never seen me cry like this, and I would never let them—some misguided attempt to seem impenetrably masculine, I'm sure. My back bows as though beneath a heavy load and it's only my sobs that fill all that silence. I cry for what we've lost and what we've gained and the fact that things will never, ever be what they were even three years ago. I cry for that very last morning that things were the same, before Prim's name came out of that glass bowl and our lives as we knew them ended. I cry because I'm sorry and I can't say it, because I love Katniss more than anything in the world and can't say it, because as the children say when they play their games, there are no backsies. I cry because I feel the last of all of our childhood gasping and strangling in the air like a fish on land. We never had much to begin with, but any minor luxury that might once have been is lost now in the necessity of being adults who will always make adult decisions, never again have the freedom to do something willfully stupid for the sake of it. A child would have done that—found Katniss in a spare room today, counted on the past to make up for the present, taken her small body into his arms like he so longed to do, to hell with the consequences. A child would have done so. But I am not a child and any child I saw in Katniss was snuffed out with the sounds of her making love to Peeta—those sounds of a woman in love that would never belong to me. I cry to get it **out**_**, **_to get this all out so that it can flow away from me and I can move on. I've held it with a closed fist, so tightly, all these months. I cry because this is the last of my hope, this thing with feathers. In a handsome leather bag in the closet hangs my old hunting clothes and belt and game sack. I never look at them and I don't now, but I feel them like the presence of a ghost.

"I love you," I whisper to the emptiness. Only the echo greets me. I feel exhausted, suddenly, almost incapable of moving. Without undressing, I crawl into my big bed by myself, and I have time for only one fleeting thought as my swollen face hits the blessedly cool white pillowcase—_she's not alone tonight_. I send this thought away, but despite my misery, there's a remote corner in my brain that is soothed. Katniss is not alone. Katniss will never be alone, because she is safe.

I cling to this, and then the sweet relief of velvet blackness sweeps over me, and there's nothing.


	19. Always

_***Happy Friday, all! I'm off to __Geeky Kink New England__ for the weekend. If anyone's there, come find me. _

You'd think after that interminable day following our adventurous morning that what I'd want most is to return to bed with Katniss as soon as possible and pick up where we blissfully left off—a whole new world of pleasures that itches at me now that we've fallen down this rabbit hole together. Even I'd gone into this morning's meetings, which feel like so long ago already, with an impatient feeling, since the meetings were a blip in a day that could ordinarily be devoted to memorizing Katniss' beautiful naked body—now inside _and_ out. And it's true, throughout the day occasionally my mind wanders, and I find myself pulling my chair a little closer to the table to cover my rising erection, as residual images zip through my brain—Katniss' legs wrapping around my hips, the feel of her body, so hot, clenching around me, the sounds that poured unbidden from her lips. Sex is definitely second on my list. But even before that is a shower. I somehow feel tainted—from the discussion, from that claustrophobic oversized room of metal and stone and glass—as well as tense, my shoulders knotted together with the effort of trying to hold it together. I'd like to be able to say that all my effort today was focused on Katniss, and it's true that a larger part of it was…but, strangely for me, some of it was also focused on my own self-control. I count my breaths…one in, one out, two in, two out…the way my therapist taught me to refocus my mind. I keep thinking of the dark, damp tunnels that lie beneath our feet, hundreds of feet down. Tunnels we fought through during our invasion of the Capitol, tunnels where we lost Finnick and so many others. But I know something Katniss doesn't know, and that's that there are other tunnels too, closer in to the President's manse. Tunnels that slam shut with iron portcullises and lock with big iron padlocks, where rooms line hallways lit with dim green light and stained camp beds come equipped with shackles and all the guards wear masks, so that if we did ever escape, we wouldn't be able to identify our torturers. It's still true that when I see someone whose height and build seem to match the figures that loomed over me, clamping my eyelids open so I could view scenes of Katniss that became progressively more distorted, I quake on the inside. It even happens with people in 12 sometimes; though usually they're really emigrants from 13. It only takes one second, but one second is too long.

My mind plays tricks on me, slyly whispering _they could take you down there again, you know. Anytime you like, just come and visit. _I'm hyperaware of where we are, too, only in a different way than Katniss is. She had the benefit—if you can call it that—of becoming accustomed to these long briefings in 13, at least once she stopped disappearing into closets to block it all out. I was in the hospital during those times, trying to recuperate. The discussion seems interminable to me. I counter the nightmarish images with positive ones—another technique that my therapist taught me. That dreamlike memory portrait of Katniss' eyes, wide and hazy staring into mine this morning as we panted together, helps combat them, and I make it through the day. I'm watchful, and what I see is that everyone's faces look strained at some point. Johanna is picking at her nails, tapping her fingers and toes obsessively, Haymitch's hands close convulsively around his glass of water all day as though by wish alone he could turn it into wine. I catch Katniss having blank moments of just focusing on the wall, and she balls herself up so tightly in her chair she looks even smaller than normal. Because of these things, I try to project an aura of calm I don't really feel. When the day is cut short, the relief is palpable.

_Shower_. God, that'll be good. There's probably time before dinner still. We've been granted a reprieve. Katniss invites Gale over as we step outside…I'd given assent to this with only a fraction of resentment, and not intentionally. I just want Katniss to hold me, to hold her, to breathe into one another and not talk. But he turns her down, anyways. We watch him together with Johanna as he walks away under the newly illuminated streetlights, growing smaller and smaller. Katniss stands still and we stand with her, but he doesn't look back. I wonder what she's thinking.

Blessedly, our living quarters are not a long walk from here. Katniss clasps her fingers into mine. Johanna, too, takes her right hand from the other side. We don't say much on the way back. Haymitch has outstripped us, muttering something about an errand. I'd bet a sizeable amount that the errand in question includes alcohol.

"Hell, I wouldn't mind some myself," I mutter. The girls look up at me.

"Booze," I say. "We should take a leaf out of Haymitch's book tonight." Katniss and Johanna exchange a glance fraught with meaning and then laugh simultaneously. It takes me a moment to place this reaction and then I remember the broken dishes and have to suppress a smile. What a night _that_ was.

"I could go for that," Johanna says. "Girl on Fire, you think you can hack it?"

"Maybe some wine or something," says Katniss. While she's preoccupied, I'm surreptitiously undoing the tie at the end of her braid. Her hair, kinky from being tied all day, begins to unravel around her shoulders. She shoots me a side-eye and I shrug innocently, combing my fingers through it. "I don't think I could do hard liquor. Although, damn, if there were ever a day to drink, today's it."

We're coming up on our quarters. Johanna checks a pouch on her belt, I assume for currency, and then says, "Alrighty, I'll see what I can rustle up."

"Are you sure?" It's been kind of a long day. It's not that important if you want to come take it easy," Katniss says, pausing with her.

"I want to take a walk, anyways. _Away_ from Snow's Mansion, though," Johanna says darkly. "I need some space." I can totally understand this. I wonder if Johanna too is remembering those dark hallways and tunnels winding beneath our feet as we walk these innocent cobblestones.

"I think we might shower," I say. "Meet up around dinner?"

"Sure," says Johanna over her shoulder. She's already scurrying away. I see her shake another smoke out of her pack and light it deftly as she moves off. That's another thing she's been relying on these few days. But I think we all get a pass on our vices for now. I unlock the door and the building is blissfully quiet. The President and the other officials have stayed in meetings, Hazelle and the kids won't be meeting us again until tomorrow night's dinner, Gale's gone home, Haymitch and Johanna have peeled off on their own. We do get greeted by one member of the household: Mutt bounds down the stairs three at a time and crashes into us with such force that I have to catch my balance on my bad leg. Katniss kneels down and his tongue doesn't so much lick her face as swallow it whole.

"Okay, okay, down boy!" I chide the dog, who's transported with joy after a long, quiet day. Katniss retreats into the kitchen and checks several cabinets for dog food with no luck. Finally she opens the refrigerator and finds some leftovers from last night's meal. She dumps some leftover roast beef and biscuits in a shallow pan for him and drops it next to the table, and he sets on it immediately. We're both covered from thigh downward in yellow fur. I give it a halfhearted swipe at my pants but it sticks stubbornly.

Katniss sweeps her hair over one side of her neck and I immediately take the opportunity to take her wrists and pull her forward into the hallway by the stairs. I lower my mouth to her neck and kiss down the side the way she likes, nudging the shoulder of her shirt aside with my mouth and nibbling down it. She tips her head back to allow me access and groans softly. My fingers reach for the buttons at the bottom of her shirt all of their own, and I've slipped two before she pulls back, smiling.

"Don't you want to shower?"

I do. I crouch a little and hoist her up like I do at our house at home, where she sits cradled in my arms, her arms looped around my neck. We ascend the stairs together, Katniss admonishing me not to drop her as she always does, though I know she secretly enjoys this. She snuggles her head into the crook of my neck for comfort and breathes softly and I melt a little inside.

I deposit her in our temporary room, noting again mentally how homesick I am for our own bedroom, our own quilt, the big window at the foot of the bed that lets the sunbeams and moonbeams crash directly into our naked bodies at the beginning and end of each day. Greasy Sae is feeding Buttercup. I imagine him wandering around the echoing house, _waow_ing. We won't be here long—only a few days—but it's long enough for a year, as far as I'm concerned. I want to stay in our bed with Katniss for at least a week when we get back to 12.

Katniss is pulling clean clothes from a drawer—comfortable-looking cutoff cotton drawstring pants. Apparently finding nothing that suits her taste in shirts, she kneels by our bed and riffles through my suitcase, without asking, I note with amusement. She withdraws an old t-shirt that I threw in as an afterthought—comfort clothes. When she thinks I'm already in the bathroom and not looking, I sneak a glance as she lifts it to her face and inhales. _Oh, Katniss_. Despite the setting…or maybe because of it…I feel a flood of love course through me. I make an about-face from the door of the bathroom and return to where she's rising, the clothes thrown over one arm, to join me. I lean in and kiss her forehead.

"I love you," I tell her. She smiles.

"I know," she says. This is Katniss-ese for _you, too_.

The first blast of the hot water makes us exhale comically in tandem. With the door closed and the curtain drawn, we could pretend to be anywhere…except this shower, of course, is the fancy kind, with two showerheads on either side, which I have to admit is awfully convenient. We've gotten a little savvier at operating the various buttons and dials, and we successfully manage to procure shampoo without covering ourselves in some crazy concoction. Katniss closes her eyes and leans back in the spray, so her wet hair cascades down behind her. It's gotten a lot longer since we came home. She lost most of it between the Quell and the war. She admitted to me that she liked it shorter, but I made her a deal to grow mine out if she would let it be. It tickles me that she adores my hair, which is long enough to tie back now. "Matches your eyelashes," she told me once.

We linger in the shower even after we're clean and sweet-scented and exfoliated. "What do you think Johanna and Gale talked about?" I ask Katniss. Something about Gale seemed off today. I don't buy that his day could possibly be tougher than ours, being here; after all, he opted in to this whole circus and he's far more accustomed to it than we are, but he looked strained. I was surprised to see him go off with Johanna. They're not really friends. We'd queried Johanna when she came back, but she'd brushed it off.

"He just wanted to know how life was out in the districts. I didn't really want to talk about it, though. I told him things were looking up in 12 but we didn't talk for very long." This seemed deceptively basic, but we let it go.

"Asked her about me," Katniss responds immediately. "Or maybe us, if he's really desperate."

"What about you/us?" I ask.

She sighs and I see her eyes look pained. I remember the moment at the foot of the stairs last night when I left the two of them together. I trust Katniss absolutely and I believe that whatever she once had with Gale is finished, but I'm doubtful whether Gale views it with the same finality. Who knows what he makes up in his head to fill in the gaps when Katniss is gone most of the time now. I wonder what he does with his free time; who he spends it with.

"Gale misses the way things were before," she says.

"He told you that?"

"He didn't have to. Gale and I were too close for too long for me to not be able to read him. He can probably read me, too, now that we're around each other again. He wants to make peace, but I don't know if it's for the sake of peace or because he's hoping to get back what was before all this. Maybe both. I think he's lonely."

Her face softens. "I'm lucky that way. I have you and Haymitch and Johanna." I'm surprised she acknowledges this aloud, though we all know how much it's helped—and not only her—for our little cadre of misfits to stick together.

"He chose to come here," I say, stating the obvious. If Gale thinks he can get things back to the way they were, he's a fool, and I don't think that's the case.

"Yeah, but I guess it's probably easy to forget, living here. You don't have to try very hard…I mean, they have just about every kind of entertainment you could hope for…as we know, unfortunately." She looks a little grim at that, and I envision Gale, spiffed up in some ridiculous Capitol getup, mingling at some tasteful party with the higher-ups. _Sellout_. I'm never entirely successful at ridding myself of these mental jabs.

"Us being here…it's like home, again. It's a lot easier to call up the old memories, I'd think," Katniss continues.

"What could Johanna possibly tell him that would be of any use in fulfilling whatever he wants?" I ask. Johanna plays her cards a little close, and I would have very much liked to have been party to whatever went on between the two of them…through I know she loves Katniss like a sister and wouldn't prioritize Gale, who she hardly knows, so I don't worry too much.

"He knows he and I, at least in the way he wanted, are over," she says softly. "In his heart, he knows. But I think it's probably harder to accept than it is to understand. At best, maybe we can be…" she falters a little. "…friends, or something." I don't think Katniss even knows what she wants from this. I can't help but feel that she's softened to Gale because she knows he's in pain. He's one of the few whose pain draws her out of herself, even after all this time, all that's been done.

She leans in and kisses my chin. "Don't worry too much about it."

I nod, even though I'm devoting a disproportionate amount of time to parsing Gale's intentions. It doesn't really matter. He's not in proximity to us with anything even remotely approaching regularity…and my paramount desire, always, is to see Katniss happy. Whatever will bring her joy is the outcome I wish, and she's opened to at least being approachable again. That signals her own healing over her sister, too, a fact that doesn't escape me. Like so much else, I'll just watch and wait. Weirdly, having him around hasn't made me feel particularly possessive over these past few days. Wary, but not possessive. I wonder if this has something to do with the sex. I wish it didn't, but I somehow suspect it does. There was also the gesture he made to Katniss in convincing the President to bring Rue's family in for her speech. I can't overlook that, either.

Katniss steps from the shower onto the mat that sends a current through her, instantly drying her and leaving her hair a glossy curtain down her back. She pulls on the sweatpants and braids her hair back again with thoughtless speed. "Coming?" she asks. "I'm starving, and dinner should be here soon. Plus Johanna will be back."

I stick my head out of the shower and shake it like a dog, so droplets of water splash her, and she rolls her eyes at me.

"I'll be a couple more minutes, you go without me," I tell her. "Check out the food situation so you can report back….soldier Everdeen." She pulls on my t-shirt and I can't help but smile again, seeing her in my clothes. Even though everything is huge on her, it's sexy. She tips me a little salute and disappears back into our room. I hear a pause, and then the sound of her descending the stairs, whistling to the dog.

I have other business to attend to, though it won't take very long. Now that I've achieved my first objective, my second priority is looming once more. I see only one way around it. I don't actually expect Katniss and I to have sex tonight, since it's been such a trying day and I know the strain it's put on both of us. Strained or not, I'd be up for it if she was—with this whole sex thing, I feel literally like I _just can't help myself_ for the first time—but I don't want to pressure her and I don't want to deal with the pressure in me, either. Plus, on the off-chance that it does happen, I'm going to keep coming in two minutes unless I take matters into my own…hand. It would be nice to last a little longer. _Or a lot longer. Or maybe forever._

I don't time myself but it probably takes about ninety seconds. The mental filing cabinet I call up in times like this has been refilled to overflowing in the past 24 hours. I sigh with relief once I'm done, even though I think with equal parts trepidation, amusement and exasperation that my satiation will probably have about a two-hour time limit, if that.

I pull on a similar pair of sweatpants to Katniss' and another, slightly more upstanding t-shirt from the drawer. All the clothing smells new, and it's disconcerting to me. The fabric is a little too stiff, everything looking a little too formal, with altered necklines and sleeves and subtle detailing. I know why Katniss would rather wear my clothes than these ones, though the pants are luxuriously soft.

I descend the stairs after Katniss and a delicious smell wafts up to me as I reach the first floor. When I enter the kitchen, an enormous paper bag is sitting on the table and Katniss' head and hands are buried in it. Haymitch is leaning against the doorway to the living room swigging, sure enough, from a bottle of white liquor. He looks much more content than he did when I last saw him, and I'm not very surprised to note that the level of liquid in the bottle is seriously depleted considering we weren't in the shower that long. He probably started it on the walk over. I can't begrudge him after today though. Isn't Johanna out fetching ours at the moment?

As though she's heard this thought, the door bangs open and Johanna marches in, holding a bottle of something in a brown bag above her head triumphantly as she notices me.

"Victory!" she says. Her dog immediately jumps up from under the table and bounds toward her, whining and leaping on her, trying to lick her face, broad tail beating wildly and sending up a cloud of fur. Johanna wards him off with the arm not occupied by the bottle, smiling. "Hey, you!" she says in a voice that's approaching the cute tone lots of people use with pets. My eyebrows raise at hearing this strange sound coming from her. She places the bottle carefully out of the way behind her and then gets on her knees and buries her hands in the thick ruff of fur around Mutt's neck. She scratches him deeply as his tail thumps on the floor. Katniss' head and hands come out of the bag, carrying a stack of paper boxes. I smell garlic, potatoes, gravy, the delicate odors of dill and cilantro. My mouth waters.

Haymitch takes another swig, unconcerned, and swings a kitchen chair around, sitting backwards on it the way he likes, his arms cocked over the back. I cross to the cabinet and begin doling out plates and glasses and for a minute, it feels like home again. Haymitch drinking, me performing household tasks, Johanna's crazy dog.

"Dinnertime," says Katniss with something like relish, and I'm glad she's hungry.

Haymitch eyes Johanna's bottle. "Yeah, sweetheart, you better lay down something to pad that or we'll all be picking broken china out of the bottoms of our feet in the morning," he says. His voice is already just a tiny bit wobbly. Katniss ignores this.

Johanna notes Haymitch's gaze and snags the bottle again, setting it beside her plate.

"Don't even think about it, Haymitch, you're not the only one who had a long day today, and we've earned it."

"Oh, I have better things to worry about, darlin'," he tells her.

"Follow your own advice, Haymitch," I say, and pluck a chicken leg from a box to drop on his plate. He wrinkles his nose at it.

"I'm having a liquid dinner tonight," he says, and it's only then when I think for the first time that it's not only the younger generation who has had it with this day. Haymitch has been so unusually taciturn that I haven't been thinking about how he might be handling things personally. I feel a surge of that mother-hen concern that keeps me constantly checking in on him at home, throwing his dirty laundry in the washer and bringing him bread.

"Humor me," I tell him, and he shrugs and takes one halfhearted bite out of the chicken. Johanna has no such reservations and tears into hers. I spoon out mashed potatoes and peas swimming in butter sauce and little round rolls with seeds. Katniss and I split a sandwich at lunch but didn't eat anything substantive and Johanna came back late and didn't eat anything at all besides an apple. Katniss and I are hungry too, and as soon as our plates are loaded, we fall to it without much comment. It occurs to me that we should probably have a group check-in, but I honestly don't have the stomach to broach this idea. Cowardly, I mentally pass the responsibility off to someone else, but no one raises the point. Really, what is there to say? No one wants to rehash the details of what happened in the War Room all day and there's not too much to say about tomorrow. We all need an emotional and mental break between today and tomorrow morning and this is all the time we have to just sit and eat and be together, even in various states of sobriety. So I let it go, and I'm assuming the others have similar thoughts on the matter because the only sound is of chewing for awhile. Johanna slips bits of chicken skin to the dog under the table. She and Katniss eat with their hands and I think fleetingly of Effie Trinket. No one ever heard from her during the war, and we never got any intelligence on her whereabouts. She's never turned up since, so I think we all assumed that she was a casualty of the Capitol, like Cinna and so many others, even their own. That's sad, because I wished Effie no harm and I know she wished us well. I suppose there's a chance she's still somewhere, starting over, but I like to think if she were still alive, she would have found a way to contact us again or be interested in how we're doing. Johanna doesn't open the wine, which suits me just fine. The food has appeared as though by magic—at least, I didn't see anyone bring it in—and there's an orange glow emerging from the next doorway over that I'm pretty sure is an actual fire. I'd rather crack it open in there. As soon as my hunger begins to slacken, my next want arises, for that fire. My body cries out to be fed, cleaned, relaxed. With each successive accomplishment, I feel more myself, like I'm shaking this day off. I can't think as far ahead as tomorrow.

I dish out seconds and then thirds. The bag seems bottomless…a bag of greens with a delicious sweet dressing, olives, strawberries with a tiny glass container of cream for dessert. When the three of us sit back we lounge like logs. Johanna burps and groans. My belly is distended with the delicious food. Katniss licks cream off the corners of her mouth like a cat. Haymitch has at least gotten in a couple of chicken drumsticks, at my insistence. I hope he has the sense not to make himself completely sick tonight, but when he rises from his chair, half the bottle is gone and he's tipsy on his feet. I immediately stand up and so does Katniss.

"Haymitch, do you want some help?" I move forward instinctively. I put a hand on his arm and he violently shakes me off.

"Oh, don't you worry about me, I'm as fit…as fit as a fiddle," he growls. I don't move. He laughs sourly. "Go take care of yourselves, now, kids. I've got all the company I need right here." He swings the bottle around and I see the dangerous stormclouds behind his eyes. Liquor sloshes out. I don't want to let him go but seeing as how he's an adult I can't do much else. I resolve to check on him later. He clomps heavily up the stairs and I hear the door to his room slam. I stand there impotently for a minute.

Johanna rises. "Okay, kids, time for a _drink._"

The fireplace in the sitting room, thankfully, is not sealed off like the one in our room, and it blazes with light from a fire that one of the discreet Capitol servants who bore our dinner must have lit. A stockpile of well-seasoned wood sits beside it and a handsome poker. It's not too late in the spring yet for it not to be chilly, and the familiarity of a crackling fire warms us all not only in our bodies, but our minds as well. Johanna sets a bottle of red wine on the low table next to the plush velvet couches, and three crystal stemmed glasses.

"Katniss, see, it's always better to get wasted in _style_," says Johanna. She pours out the wine and hands it out to the three of us. I pull the couch in a little closer to the fire and we sit side by side on it, our bodies comfortably tucked in together.

"We should make a toast," I say, watching the firelight twinkle off the red liquid in the crystal glasses.

"Yup," says Johanna promptly. "Here's to getting the hell out of here!"

"I'll drink to that," says Katniss, and they clink glasses. Katniss clinks hers against mine and we all take a swig.

"Ohhhh, this is good," groans Katniss when she lifts her head, her mouth stained burgundy. "Thanks, Johanna, I owe you one."

"You owe me at least seven, counting the sex tips," says Johanna.

"Johanna gave you sex tips?" I ask, laughing. "Wow, Johanna, they worked."

"She did **not** give me sex tips," Katniss admonishes, at the same time as Johanna says, "So I heard!" Johanna's response trumps her, though, and she blushes, looking chagrined. "Johanna, the concept of boundaries is one that you should familiarize yourself with."

"Please," snorts Johanna, "Even if I were _trying _to ignore you, it's not like you were being that quiet anyways." Whatever miniscule hope I'd been harboring that the whole house didn't hear us is dashed in an instant and I can't help but wonder what the others made of it. I did catch Gale's sour face early this morning at breakfast. For a second, I imagine our places reversed and for the first time, feel a tiny stab of pity for him. That would be unbearable for me to listen to. I'm glad he's not staying in the same place again tonight. _Maybe that's why._

"I'm not drunk enough to listen to your commentary," Katniss tells her, and takes another swig from the glass. I take one too. Forgetting about today wouldn't be the worst thing that could possibly happen. Our glasses are still half-full but Johanna cheerfully pops the cork back out of the wine bottle and refills them without our asking.

"How was it? Took you long enough," Johanna asks, adding, "_Mazel tov_." I have no idea what this last bit means or where she got it. She pauses a second and then continues, "Peeta, at least this time you didn't turn her down. Hey, this time Katniss gets wasted with me it's because she **did** succeed!"

I look at Katniss. "I **knew** you got trashed that night because I turned you down."

Katniss looks indignant. "I…you…" It's rare that she's at a loss for words and Johanna and I laugh at the same time. She settles for just shaking her head. "Is there any possibility of me just enjoying this wine in peace without you razzing me all night, Johanna?"

"Oh, Katniss, you've become a woman," says Johanna, draining her glass. "I knew you guys had it in you. Now give it about ten more times and the feeling of accomplishment will really kick in."

"Whenever you finally get around to your tricks again, Johanna, I'll be the first one there to give you a hard time," says Katniss.

"You can come along," Johanna says, "Say, Peeta, can I rent her for a bit? I'll return her as good as new, I promise. Better, even." This relaxed banter does make me feel more at home, so I settle in comfortably and look to Katniss, my eyes twinkling. I do enjoy watching Johanna play with her like this, since Katniss spent so much time being renowned for her total lack of awareness of sex and consequent embarrassment. I, at least, had a working understanding of sex and an active fantasy and masturbatory life before we were thrown together at the Reaping. _Mostly involving Katniss, too_. I remember when Johanna shed her tree costume in the elevator. Chaff kissing her on the mouth…and Finnick with the sugar cubes. What I wouldn't give to have him sitting with the three of us right now. This stings, and I don't want those melancholy thoughts intruding, so I take another swig. My mind and body feel more relaxed than ever, now. I'm getting that ever-so-slight heady feeling that comes with alcohol.

"Oh, what the hell, sure," I say, teasing. Katniss swats my shoulder. "Don't I have a say in this?" she asks. Her cheeks are still flushed, though from the embarrassment or the wine, I can't tell.

"You know you like it," says Johanna, and leans over to bite her shoulder. Even on the other side of her, since she's pressed close against me, I feel the electric tremor that flits through her, and my eyebrows go up. Johanna grins ferally but backs off. _Now __**that**__ would be something_, I think.

We sit companionably in the silence, a silence that feels warm and comfortable, instead of the one at dinner, which felt loaded with unsaid things. Slowly we make it through the bottle of wine. Johanna tells dirty jokes, of course. Katniss giggles. I feel her loosen up in my arms as we all watch the fire crackle down to embers. I feel a little drowsy and almost completely content as the day blessedly fades to a distant memory.

When Katniss finally yawns I kiss her cheek. "Want to go upstairs?" I ask. She looks reluctant to leave our cozy perch here, but nods. The prospect of stretching out on those heinously expensive sheets together is too compelling. Johanna whistles for her dog and leaves the glasses and bottle where they are. Even I'm too lethargic to move them, so we leave the embers and troop upstairs together, where Johanna says good night at her room and disappears inside, already pulling her shirt over her head as the door closes behind her. I gently open Haymitch's door and peek my head in. He's snoring loudly, amazingly since he never sleeps at night…booze must've helped…so I close it again with a quiet _snick_ and we finally move into our own room.

As I change, Katniss is riffling through the dresser drawers idly, muttering commentary that I only occasionally catch. Suddenly she laughs, "Look at these ridiculous underwear," holding up a pair of black satin panties fringed in delicate lace. I'm pleased to hear her laughter as I sit on the bed and bend to unbuckle my leg for the evening, since it's gotten stiff and painful today. She turns them around and I look up just in time to see how little they cover in the back department.

My mouth drops open. "Please, for the love of god, wear those to bed." She's laughing at me and I know that this trend she really doesn't get at all. The only lingerie I've ever really seen Katniss wear is the shift with the roses that used to belong to her mother, for her honeymoon. She always comes to bed nude, or in an old t-shirt or shorts or a robe. "There's not even any fabric in this!" she protests, still laughing, turning it this way and that. "What a rip-off."

"Katniss, I'll give you anything you want." I'm smiling now although I'm half-serious and she looks up, her eyes twinkling with mirth, and sees the smile. I can tell she's still just a little drunk.

"Okay, okay," she says. "Only to humor you." She slips the underwear on and I almost chew through my bottom lip trying not to drool when I see just _how_ little fabric there is. Before she crawls into bed she flips the lights off, which is probably for the best, though the image of those underwear is now burned firmly into my brain.

It's been a long day, and I know Katniss is probably tired, so I don't want to push it. The emotions have been running high for all of us since we got here, for better or worse. She made me proud—as always—today, stepping up admirably to take on a mantle that I know she would rather have disgarded forever. It wasn't easy for any of us, but it's Katniss that they expect the most from. I can't help but feel that Haymitch gets a pass sometimes because of his reputation with white liquor, Johanna gets a pass because most of them regard her as highly unstable, and I get a pass because…I don't know. All I know is that Katniss never seems to get a pass in the leadership department. It's ironic that perhaps because when it's come down to the wire, she's always been able to pull herself together, even if she had to scramble to do it, they heap on the assumption that she always **will** be able to, like a trick pony. But she always does it again. Katniss is loathe to appear weak and hates to lose. And they know it.

She settles back in my arms and I almost groan from the pure comfort of it, her familiar soft warm compact body tucked into mine. I try to match her breathing at first but then I purposely deepen and slow my breaths, hoping that will help lull her to sleep. I'm a little afraid of nightmares for both of us tonight, to be honest. This place doesn't encourage me to sleep easy, though last night I was too starstruck and exhausted to stay awake. I'm acutely aware of the curve of her ass pressing into me, but since my stunt in the shower, thank god I'm able to forcibly push my physical impulses back. I'm an 18-year-old boy, so I'm a bit resigned to them at this point, but I want Katniss to know that it's not just about the sex, even if I'm still dazzled. She yawns and stretches, arching against me. _Katniiiiiiiiss, _my brain pleads. _Oh, don't do that…_ It's almost funny. I feel like maybe the thinking part of my brain isn't so good at operating when she does that.

_Thank god I jerked off_, I think again.

Then Katniss rolls over to face me and lifts one long leg up to crook over my hip. I let out a whimper that I hope is only at a register dogs can hear. She leans in and the sweet scent of her hair engulfs me as she kisses my neck. I'm rigid with self-control, placing my hands only flat and tentatively on her shoulders like we're brother and sister or some absurd thing.

"Hey, it's okay if you want to get some sleep," I get out. "Tomorrow's a long day and I know today wasn't so easy already." My voice sounds more even than I'd hoped for.

Katniss moves to my earlobe and nibbles it and I sigh, closing my eyes. My hands begin to slip down her bare arms and wander to the delicate web of her ribcage. The leg slung over me tightens just barely. She rakes one hand up to push my waves off my forehead and then keeps it buried in my hair.

"Is that what you want?" she whispers in my ear, sounding unconvinced.

"N-n-n-yes, if you're tired," I answer. I can't answer questions in this state of mind so I hope she doesn't ask anything more complicated.

"That's not an answer!" she sing-songs softly, her hot breath whispering as she lands the tiniest kisses up the outer arc of my ear. "What do _you_ want to do right now?"

_Ahhhhhhhhhhh. I'm not made of stone. _The hand not in my hair places itself palm-out on my chest, like she's pulling me in and stopping me all at once. Despite my previous orgasm, I'm getting turned on and I know it's immediately obvious, too. _Traitor body_, I think numbly. Women have it so easy in this area. She tweaks one nipple gently and I jump. She laughs and moves her mouth down to mine. I melt into the kiss as she plies my lips delicately with her tongue and mine slips out to meet it. I feel all my fingers flex out, my hands like starfish, tendons rigid, frozen. I try to cut myself a little slack even in the haze. It's only been a day. One day. I'm overcome with joy suddenly, thinking of how many more days we might have to repeat our act.

"Are you sure?" I ask, unable to help myself from being polite even though I'm half-mad with lust. I can almost **hear**Johanna snorting in my head at this knightly gesture, even though I'm squirming like a little kid again. Katniss bites my bottom lip and pulls it out with her teeth. I have time to marvel at this, at how aggressively she's pursuing me at the moment. It has a feeling entirely different from anything we've ever done before. I can feel the **need **I usually feel pulsing out of her in waves, tonight. It's all the answer I need. I roll onto my back and pull her on top of me. She straddles me but doesn't break our kiss, and our mouths move almost frantically together. The ache in my balls has moved up deep in my belly as I feel the thin silk of those absurd black underwear come in contact with my too-hot body. Even through my shorts I can feel myself burning against her. She must enjoy the feeling because as I shift up towards her, she shivers all over and I feel it through her strong thighs gripping me, her hands in my hair, even her mouth. I slide my hands down to cup her ass, pushing the little bit of fabric that exists up with my fingers so it bunches together in between, and she gasps. Acting instinctively, I tug the fabric up higher, making it taut between her legs, and she correspondingly presses down harder against me. It's not the kind of night where games will be played. Katniss reaches one well-coordinated hand down and tugs at the elastic around my waist, inching my shorts down to my knees where I can wriggle out of them. In the dark, I reach for the condoms that are stowed in the drawer beside the bed. Katniss snatches one from my hand and I groan as her small hand reaches down, down, down, and rolls it down over my thoroughly insistent erection. I can hardly believe it's possible for me to be so worked up when my last orgasm was just outside of four hours ago. Instead of moving her from her straddled position to slip those red-hot underwear off, I tug them to the side with two fingers. But it's Katniss who makes that final move as I see her silhouette move above me, a dark shape against darkness, and then she lowers herself. I expect her to go slowly, still adjusting to the feel of me inside her and perhaps still feeling the residual of our exertions this morning—I heard that can happen—but it's all in one rush and before I can form a cry in my mouth, she's pressed down against my belly and she begins to rock gently on me, stabilizing herself with her hands on the bed on either side of us as though she's been doing it all her life. Her hips move with a sensuousness I didn't know they had. Absurdly, I think of horses. Riding horses. Riding…

Little cries and whimpers are coming from me, but she's silent…concentrating, maybe. Her hair falls in a delicate fringe, whispering against my chest as she leans forward, which changes the sensation entirely. I can feel every shift. Then she sighs softly, contentedly, and lowers further so we press together. She's balanced on those strong hunter's thighs. Instinctively I move to close the distance and push up into her.

"Mmmmm," she groans. I uncertainly move my hips up the way she moved hers, and she stills to let me play. After awhile, we learn how to move together so we don't bump awkwardly, and the fluidity of the rhythm carries us both. All I can hear is Katniss panting in the dark as she tucks her face into my neck. My hands run up and down her bare back, bury into the hair at the nape of her neck. I can feel the whisper of those silken underwear against the side of me as she slips up and down and I shiver.

I last longer than the first two times but not as long as I'd like. Katniss anticipates my orgasm before I warn her and pushes all the way down against me again as I come. My eyes squeeze shut at the height of it and my hands leave her and grip handfuls of the sheets on either side of us. She snuggles down contentedly on my chest with me still inside her body. We breathe together in the dark. When I finally recover, I bury my face in her hair and breathe the mixed scent of flowers and the heaviness of our sweat drenching the air.

Katniss finally swings her leg over and off me as I begin to go soft inside her, and reaches out to open a window. She puts her face next to the cool air coming in and purrs.

"Yum," she says, and I laugh.

"Are you sore?" I ask tentatively. In the dark I see her reach down experimentally and even though I've just come, I quaver a little.

"Not so sore that I'm ready to sleep," she says teasingly. That's all the answer I need. Katniss seems to be totally incapable of being quiet during our sex here, because when I tug her back down to the bed and rise up over her, showering her with kisses that descend down and down and down the swells of her breasts and her flat belly and the jutting lyre of her hips, when my hand moves with my mouth and finds her sore places, still drenched with the evidence of our lovemaking, her cries begin again. This time, I don't boss her around or tell her what to do. I'm as tender as I can be, trying to convey to her what this feels like to me, the red-rose rise that I feel hanging over us like smoke. This is only for her pleasure, not for mine, and if it can be believed, it might be a greater pleasure for me than even the sex that came before, when after not too long she shudders and arches her back and I feel her body clench tight around my exploring fingertips. Like so often, her hands in my hair pull hard at the roots and I hear my name in her strained voice explode into the air. When I draw back and rest my head against her stomach, hugging her lower body to me and already beginning to drift, sated, in the sleepiness that comes down, I hear her answer to my love whisper in the air. I can hear the smile in her voice.

"Always," she says, and I smile too.


	20. Forward

If we harbored any thoughts that we were going to drift into another peaceful unbroken sleep, following our lovemaking, they're shattered fairly quickly tonight. Maybe it's because of the long day behind or the second long day ahead, maybe something unspoken has triggered it, maybe the alcohol has loosened the bolts on those locked doors in our minds. I don't know. I'm sure my head doctor would. He'll probably have to hear all about it, after the scenes of today.

Peeta's the first one to wake screaming, but I wake up almost immediately when he does. His eyes are wide and wild and unfocused and his hands clench convulsively on the bedsheets. His teeth are bared and I get a chill when he looks right through me. The mutt boy returned from the Capitol is all too close at hand. He doesn't see me—not as I am, at least. The tendons in his neck are like taut bowstrings in the moonlight. When I first reach for him, he lashes out at me and I duck to miss the blow. All those nights of watchfulness in hunting and the arena have trained me well. My reflexes are at almost full strength before I'm even fully awake.

"Peeta!" I call his name, which is sometimes enough. Not this time.

"I…I…I…can't! She…she…" His eyes are terrified, confused. My heart breaks having to look into them this way again and I feel a surge of hatred that we're back in this place again…physically, mentally. His movements are uncontrolled, as though he's not really behind them. "I…she wouldn't do that…would she? …No! **Don't do it again**!" I feel a chill run through me and for a second I falter, afraid to touch him for the first time in months, afraid to provoke him further. Then I steel myself because the love and the pity that wells in my chest, the will to protect, is ultimately what wins out, when it comes to Peeta. I duck his flailing arm and put my hands on his shoulders. His hands jerk up to my wrists and his nails begin to dig in. I shake him, hard.

"Peeta!" I insist. "PEETA!" As his nails begin to hurt, I move in and begin to talk quietly but very fast, the way you might gentle a rearing horse.

"Not real," I whisper. "Not real, not real, not real…Peeta, Peeta, my Peeta." His brows knit pathetically and his eyes close again. I feel his hands go slack on my wrists and the nails withdraw. He's breathing heavily. I listen reflexively to hear if the others have woken, but this time, probably knocked out from the alcohol, no one stirs. I press my forehead to his and we breathe together. By the way his breaths match mine, I know he's back to himself again. Cautiously, I move my hands to cup his cheeks and the tears begin to come. I wipe them away with my thumbs and move in to kiss the trails, his eyelids, the corners of his eyes. He sags and I cradle his head against my chest.

"Was it me?" I ask quietly.

"Yeah," he says. His voice is raspy with sleep and fear and screams. "I'm s…"

I put my hand over his mouth. "Don't."

"Katniss, I d…" He opens his eyes.

I shake my head. We've been through this before. The days where I blamed Peeta for the things he can't control are behind me now. At some point he became more Peeta than not-Peeta. As Peeta, he's never failed me, and I don't believe he ever will. I will not fail him again. I hold him and we breathe, wrapped in the lush blanket. I kiss his hair.

"I love you," I tell him softly. "Do you know that?"

"Yeah," he says. "I know." This is usually my response.

"Do you love me?" I say, teasingly, trying to lighten the mood. His brows knit again and he raises his head. "Don't joke like that," he says. I'm immediately sorry.

"Of course I love you," he says severely, and then those beautiful eyes reflect sorrow and apology again and he cranes up and kisses me. "Did I hurt you?" I shake my head. He's still agitated. "Let me see," he insists. I hold up my wrists. The little crescent indents left by his nails are already fading. By the time Peeta was let out of the hospital and returned to 12, the worst of his outbursts toward me had passed. Most of these are minor, now, and they're very rare, besides. I have no doubt what triggered this one.

"We shouldn't sleep," he says, "Or I should go downstairs. I don't…I don't want to do it again. Wake you up. I don't…you can't trust me."

"We're beyond that," I tell him, shaking my head. "Come here." He looks so sad. I always feel the need to touch him more, love him more, when he looks that way. I pull him down by me and wrap him in my arms, my whole body moving to cover his, encircle it, make it safe even from himself.

"I don't want to sleep again, though," he insists. I feel like I'll be awake too for awhile but I let this be. "You try to sleep, ok?" I nod to placate him, moving my head against his neck so he can feel it. I kiss the back of his neck, sweeping the hair away. I feel him relax ever-so-slightly. I whisper something to him that only three people have ever gotten from me, to that day, because I know it might be the only thing that will coax a smile.

"Deep in the meadow," I whisper, "Under the willow…" The song brings back all kinds of memories. Prim, the morning of the first Hunger Games, the day she left us the goat cheese. Rue. My father. It's the last thing I remember before, exhausted and despite my assumptions, I drift back into darkness.

The second time it's me. When I wake, I'm already screaming, as I jolt up, my throat burns and my head whips wildly around, trying to make sense of the surroundings. I can't piece together where I am at first and this makes me more panicked. I don't even register Peeta's presence beside me until I hear a startling voice that's not his.

"Katniss," it says. "Hey, hey…" Against all odds, it's Johanna, kneeling by the bed, draped in a sheet. I look perplexed still, but she and Peeta begin to come into focus. They're both holding one of my hands. I don't register the fact that we're both nude for some time. Johanna is squeezing my hand hard.

"You're in a boardinghouse in the Capitol," she recites, as though she's done it a million times. "You're only visiting. It's the middle of the night, and it's April. You live in district 12 with Peeta in your own house, and you'll be home soon." This is as far as she needs to get before I come out of my state and begin nodding to let them know I'm alright. Peeta's wrapped his arms around me and she lets go, but she sits beside me on the bed anyways. Only then do I pull the sheet up to cover my bare breasts.

"Prim?" she asks quietly, and I nod. I swallow and my throat clicks. "Rue, too." The three of us are like one mind sometimes after all we've been through.

"Yeah. I can't sleep here either," she says. "Especially not tonight." I'm about to ask why when I hear what my hunter's senses missed as I awoke in such terror. The rain is pouring down outside the window, erasing the clear moonlit night. I realize a few hours must have passed since Peeta awoke, but it's still full dark. I wince. The hissing of the rain must be making her crazy.

"Thanks," I whisper. My eyes feel hot and tight. I want to cry but I can't. The images pound through my brain. Peacekeepers restraining Gale as he mouths at me to shoot him. Turning to run. Clinging to a lamppost and then red hot, rose red, heat blooming and flowering, and she's there, two blonde braids, and I'm not fast enough…

"Don't go there," says Johanna, slapping my thigh lightly. I shake my head.

"It's okay," Peeta whispers. "We've got you." I only then realize that I'm shaking.

I try to turn my thoughts to something else. It's hard. "How'd you know to tell me…" I address Johanna.

"That's what helps me when I keep ending up in the arena over and over again," she says, grimly. "Or else…" she glances at Peeta and falls silent. "I need to know for sure that I'm not there anymore, that I'm out."

My litany has already kicked in inside my head. _My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live in district 12 with Peeta…_

"I've got her," Peeta says. Johanna nods and squeezes my hand again before she leaves. I lean back into Peeta and close my eyes.

The third time, I'm already awake. I can't sleep after the first round. This time, it's Darius, for him. In the tunnels, as the pieces slowly come off. After this, we give up. We simply cling to one another's warmth in the bed as the rain, such a soothing sound at home, pours down. I hear Johanna pacing in the next room. To the sound of the rain and the footsteps, we meet the dawn. I dread this day as I've dreaded no other since returning to 12 after the war ended. Our eyes are red and bloodshot when we wake up, and I'm exhausted. I can't think about the litany of expectations that fills today, seeing that ache behind Gale's soldier front. It's only the thought of Rue's family that gets me out of bed. For the first time in a long time, when Johanna, looking as exhausted and rumpled as us, offers me one of her stash of pills in the hallway, I take it, without even asking what it is. It will take awhile to kick in, though, and in the meantime, I'm rancid.

The crew has already coalesced around the food downstairs, except for Haymitch. Fulvia looks surprised not to see him descend the stairs with us. I'm not up for cleaning up whatever mess he's gotten himself into this time, and Peeta is more dispirited than I've seen him lately. I'm filled with fresh unwarranted hatred for everyone in the room except the three of us. My rational brain knows that it doesn't make sense, but I can't help my hostility, especially looking at Peeta, who was doing so well at home and is now slumped next to me in a chair, looking down at a plate of delicious food that none of us feel like eating.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Plutarch heartily, and I aim my hate in that direction.

"I'm not fetching him," I snap. "Do it yourself if you need him." Plutarch's eyebrows raise. I see Lyme shoot a quizzical glance at us and then turn and whisper into Paylor's ear. The President regards us quietly and then nods in assent. I look up long enough to see Lyme pull Plutarch aside, too, and then I ignore them. Fulvia is sent up the stairs to fetch Haymitch. _Good luck_, I think sourly.

We hear a ruckus from overhead and then a short yelp, a pause, a growl, Fulvia saying something sternly, some kind of sound of disgust, and then a door slamming and the shower kicking up. Everyone is staring at the ceiling but the three of us, since this is completely normal for us. I try slowly to work through some eggs. Like Finnick and Annie, I haven't let go of Peeta's hand this morning, trying to provide him with some sense of stability, like he did with me yesterday. I'll have to muster up everything I have to get through today in one piece. The rain, relentless, pounds on the kitchen windows. Johanna hunches into her plate. We eat in silence waiting for Haymitch. Finally, Fulvia clumps down the stairs, looking harried, and a minute later, Haymitch, freshly showered, glowering and looking sullen and hostile, slides into his chair, uncorks a hip flask, and takes a long draw from it. He coughs, and then looks marginally better.

The President takes a breath and then begins to speak as we wrap up eating. Peeta and I push our plates away with a lot of food still on them. I'm loathe to waste food, but my stomach just can't hold any down this morning. Fulvia again passes out an itinerary and I look down at it in dread.

0700: Breakfast and Debrief

0800: Meet at Capitol

0900: Propo Preparation (Salon, #14, D. Street)

1030: Propo Shoot (Washington Park, D. Street)

1200: Break for lunch

1300-1600: Mental Health Check-Ins (Medical Outpost #2)

1700-1830: Mockingjay's Address to Panem (Monument Square Podium)

1900: Dinner (TBD)

My first instinct is confusion. My brain is addled from lack of sleep and I don't know where any of these locations are, and I'm immediately on the defensive because I don't understand what's going on and there are so many areas of the city which we're still all afraid to go. I'm terrified of coming into contact with the smell of roses or the square in front of the Mansion, even though I heard it's been razed and redone as a memorial. I fear the streets and alleys by Tigress's shop, during those hours when we hid and fled through the streets, unsure, half-broken from the losses we'd suffered, so many deaths in so few days. Streets haunted with the ghosts of pods and those who died. We moved only to one building yesterday, a new one, so it was okay, but there are so many locations here. I chew the inside of my mouth until I taste blood just looking at this deceptively simple white sheet of paper. Johanna looks a little green. Paylor must note our confusion because she produces a tiny device from an inside pocket in her tailored jacket and begins to lift it in order to help explain. I recognize it in an instant, though, and I feel my body begin to shake again. Without a word, I shove my plate back and back up. Peeta's hand is on my arm and I know he's trying to pause me, even in his state, to keep me there, but my stomach lurches and my mouth begins to fill with saliva. I feel bile in my throat and without a thought of how this will look, what the stakes are, keeping cool and calm and leading the others, I knock my chair over in my haste, reach the bathroom and slam the door behind me just in time to drop to my knees and retch into the toilet. The little I ate comes back up again. I feel the acid in my sinuses and retch again and again and again. That tiny device…I can't. _I can't do it. I can't do it. _My head pounds and I lean my cheek down against the cool porcelain tiles. I'm panting.

_Why did they bring us back here?_

Suddenly I'm furious. The bathroom stinks of vomit and I hear footsteps coming towards the door. Peeta. Haymitch. Lyme. Paylor herself, maybe, holo in hand. "Leave me alone!" I cry. My hand suddenly shoots out and a delicate china dish filled with candy, propped on the shiny sink, falls to the floor and shatters. I'm still raging over my own ineptitudes, all the memories rushing back, the reality that the President would not know what these relics of the past would bring up for us. I ache for Finnick. I hear the doorknob turn and my hand shoots out to thumb the lock but I'm not fast enough. I suspect Peeta, but it's not. Haymitch enters and thumbs the lock behind him. I hear rushed, raised voices. I take one look at him and see in his eyes that I don't have to explain.

"I'll tell them you can't do it," he says, and his eyes, though he's already begun drinking today, are now stone sober. "It's okay, sweetheart. We'll figure it out so we can go home. They can do it another way, maybe in 12."

My whole being aches to say yes to this offer, to tell Haymitch to get that horrible train back, to let me leave, go, curl up at home in bed and try to forget. But I know deep inside that if I can't get past my terror at being in the Capitol, if I can never face it, I'll never fully heal. It will remain an open, suppurating wound, maybe forever. I've never shied away from my fears. I've forced myself through them, past them—fear of death, fear of insanity, fear of losing Peeta. I've lost my sister and survived. I've lost dear friends and survived. I'm not here alone. I make these calculations in my head. Haymitch is quiet, letting me work it out. I don't want to quit because I can't take it. I don't want to be the one who can't fight through it somehow—Peeta and Johanna tortured here, hijacked here, Haymitch watching the Capitol kill his family one by one, returning every year with new Tributes, year after year training them only to watch them die one by one. And Annie, who will be there today, Annie who lost the love of her life. Rue's family who had to watch their little girl die on television.

"No," I say, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I clench my fingernails into my palms, and blessedly, I feel Johanna's pill begin to kick in. It's some kind of calming agent, because my mind feels a little fuzzy, but not too bad. It becomes easier to not think too hard about things. "I've got to finish what I started."

"Then tell me what you need," says Haymitch.

"Tell them to put the damn holos away," I snap, not at him but in frustration. For once, he doesn't take it personally. "All of these things just bring up old memories and frankly, we've had a night full of them already."

"I know," Haymitch says, "Peeta filled me in after you left."

"He's not doing any better," I say, feeling ashamed of myself for leaving him there, and further ashamed for my refusal to go upstairs and help with Haymitch, who's being so kind to me now. "And Johanna is paralyzed by the weather, you must know that. I need to know where all these things will be. Paper maps, maybe. I can't go near the places where I was during the war, especially not that mansion. Have them do whatever it takes to keep me from there. I can do the rest if they can manage that."

"Alright," says Haymitch. "I'll tell them. Why don't you wash up. Splash some water on your face and pull it together. We'll help you as much as we can today. His eyes are surprisingly sympathetic as he rises to leave. "Do you want Peeta?"

I nod mutely, trying to collect myself. Haymitch leaves and I pull myself up to the sink, rinse the disgusting taste from my mouth, wipe it with paper, throw it all in the toilet and flush the mess down. I can't get the taste out so I rinse and spit again. I throw a handful of cold water over my face and when that's not enough, stick my whole face under the tap. Peeta finds me like this. He still looks too pale, his face set. When he sees me, he pulls me into his arms and rains kisses down on my hair. I wrap my arms around him and wish more than anything we were home again.

"Haymitch says you want to go on," he says.

I ignore this for the moment. "Peeta?"

"Yes?"

"When we get home, can we just…" I swallow hard. "Can we just lie in bed for awhile and…just rest and…maybe we can make something to eat, just us, and light a fire…" I can barely say it without wanting to cry. Peeta leans down and kisses me softly. Tiny kisses, gentle and chaste. I breathe him in.

"When we get back home to our house," he murmurs, "We'll climb into bed under that big soft quilt and I'll hold you tight, and we'll light a big old roaring fire in that fireplace like the night I found you in the snow, and I'll rub your back and we'll rest wrapped in each other's arms, and then we'll make love and rest some more, just us. I'll make you some cheese buns and we'll have Greasy Sae pick up some food and we'll stay just as long as you like. Maybe take a big hot bubble bath." It sounds so good, I want to whimper. "Okay," I whisper back.

It takes all my willpower to pull out of his arms and rise on wobbly legs to my feet again. I can hear rapid voices speaking over one another outside the bathroom door in low, rushed tones, punctuated by frustrated outbursts from Haymitch, although I'm missing the words. Peeta holds my arms to keep me steady and I close my eyes, inhale deeply, steeling myself to face the room again.

_Almost done_, I think. I cling to the thought of Peeta and I home in bed. It feels as though we've been here for a hundred years already. But Peeta's hands are warm and steady as ever and the closer sound of his breathing, matching mine, helps me block out the din outside the door. Peeta squeezes gently.

"I'll go out first, okay?" he says. I swallow hard and nod. I feel guilty again letting him bear the brunt of this agonizing rehashing, but I need he and Haymitch and I can't deny it; need them to carry the message that deep down, I'm still so fragile. I'm frustrated with myself but whether I like it or not, this visit has brought up old aches and pains not yet healed.

Peeta leans in and kisses my forehead and then I hear his footsteps moving away before the voices quiet. The heated dialogue grows quieter, and when I hear them stop speaking, I step back out into the hall. When I enter the room, Paylor is speaking brusquely into a telephone attached to the table. Lyme is on another line, I presume, because I can hear one half of her conversation in another room nearby. Johanna, very pale, is nodding to Haymitch, who is crouched on his haunches in front of her. I can tell from here her jaw is set and almost vibrating. I'm amazed that her body can retain that much tension even mediated by drugs. I know the only sense of calm I possess at the moment is drug-induced. Paylor glances up at me but returns to her conversation. I note that Gale is watching me with unmistakable concern in his eyes, which are red-rimmed. Some of the others are avoiding my eyes entirely, as though I were a dangerous animal who might be provoked. I pour a tall cool glass of water from the crystal jug on the sideboard. Just as I take a seat beside Peeta again, who rests a hand on my leg, Paylor hangs up the phone and Lyme re-enters the room, carrying a stack of paper. When she begins to disseminate them to the rest of us, she begins with me, and I look down with some relief in realizing it's a paper map. Wherever the holos are, they've been temporarily stowed from my sight. Johanna is already analyzing the map closely. I can't help but be slightly impressed by the speed with which these have appeared—they must have been sent electronically somehow. I cross-check them with the schedule that remains at my place, and note several things at once: that the locations mentioned on the schedule are marked on the map, that all of these locations are relatively clustered, and that none of them, at least on the map, appear to be centered around anything that triggers me. From what I can tell, these locations are situated further west in the city than the path we followed in our invasion. They are, in fact, far enough away that I begin to wonder whether we'll be expected to walk that distance. Far off, I can still hear the drizzle of water on the windows, and I'm thinking of Johanna again. My breathing begins to ease in these deductions, though. My hands relax on the tabletop. Peeta merely waits, his eyes fixed on the President. Lyme takes her seat, and Paylor begins to speak. Her eyes are not coy; they are trained obviously in our direction.

"We have adjusted some of our plans for the day accordingly, and we'll go over those plans now, if that's alright," she says. I recognize this as being an open hand to me, and I nod. Haymitch has returned to his chair beside Johanna, but her feet still tap restlessly.

"We will be calling cars to transport all of us across town to the locations at which we'll be shooting the propos and Katniss' address to Panem today," she says. "These locations were chosen so as to provide the highest level of comfort possible, given that we recognize your aversion to travel within the Capitol after all you have suffered during the war." My first impression of this is patronization and my hackles begin to rise, but my eyes shift to Lyme, and there is open understanding in her eyes at my emotional instability, my inability to hide and subsume it. I feel a flicker of that Victor bond between us.

"Johanna, do you think you'll be alright traveling in an enclosed vehicle?" Paylor asks directly.

"Oh, don't worry yourself about me," Johanna deadpans, with the hint of a sneer. I can feel a blameless anger pulsing beneath her words. I doubt, were I to ask her, she'd even be able to verbalize at whom it's directed. She's angry to be here at all. I know the feeling.

Paylor continues as though oblivious to the sneer.

"Alright then," she continues. "We'll be meeting the cars directly here instead of gathering at the Capitol first. Your prep teams and Annie Cresta will be meeting you there." I sneak a sideways glance at Peeta in time to see him wince. Peeta's prep team is long dead, executed as a punishment for him exercising free will during his hijacking and warning 13 about the impending missile strike. I wonder who they've dug up for him.

"The Avis family is expected to arrive at midday. While you're in your mental health check-ins, they will settle in to their lodgings for the day and we will update them on our current schedule and objectives. You will meet them afterwards and they will be there for the entirety of your address, Katniss. Beetee will project this address live to all of Panem…." Beetee nods at this… "We have a speech prepared but beforehand, you will be able to sit with an editor and make certain adjustments, and add your own thoughts. We hope to find a reasonable compromise, as there are certain crucial facts we need you to speak about." I can feel the scowl coming across my face. _Katniss the marionette, the Capitol's eternal puppet._ I don't look at the others. For just that moment, I resent all of them, everyone in the room, irrationally, for the sole fact that in the end it is still me who is expected to stand up for all of us.

Paylor is carefully tracking my facial expressions because she backs off. I think she's probably afraid her Mockingjay might balk after all, might flatly refuse. _Good_, I think, _maybe they'll walk carefully around me_. This thought lends some much-needed legitimacy to my defeated mindset.

"Dinner tonight will include everyone," Gale speaks up in her place. His face softens a moment. "My family will be coming out, your prep teams, Rue's family, Annie, and all of us, plus a few others. We'll be working on where the best location for dinner is today. Carefully." He adds this last bit belatedly, and despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch as he gazes at me.

Johanna stands. "Let's get moving already, I'm sick of talking about it." Haymitch grunts agreement and when I glance at him, I see that he's swiftly tucked a flask beneath his long jacket. I don't say a word, though, and neither does anyone else. I'd really prefer he be stable on this long and dreary day, but by no means is it the first time, and being as how I'm feeling a little loopy on one of Johanna's pills myself, I figure I'm not one to talk. I have the feeling that all the details of today haven't yet been filled in, but they'll have time as we go. I hear the splash of water in the gutter and the low hum of idling engines as what must be our transportation pulls up to the curb. We stand, and I see that some of the Ministers are trying to discreetly cover their yawns. I have a feeling it was a long night for them. I don't pity them much, though, because after Paylor has a quick word with them, many of them are dismissed.

Paylor addresses the end of the table once more as we stand.

"Vice President Lyme will be sitting in on your activities today in my stead," she says, and although I fully expect today to be a terrible day, between the paper maps, my reassurance over our destinations, Johanna's pills, the dinner later tonight, and the dismissal of all these stifling government agents, I'm beginning to feel better. Peeta looks a little less pale, too, and despite Johanna's blistering contempt for this entire process, I can tell from her body language she's reassured by the cars. Further, I spot Gale passing her something from a closet that can only be some type of umbrella, a luxury previously unheard-of outside the Capitol. Paylor no doubt has other things to do than babysit a disgruntled Mockingjay and her friends. Lyme smiles at me. Without thinking, I smile back. I don't dislike Paylor and I don't doubt she's doing a better job than any other prospect would, but I like Lyme more.

Randolph and Flora file past us, shaking our hands and murmuring how nice it has been to meet us. Plutarch, who I'm quite glad to see go, though he's been uncharacteristically quiet this morning—I wonder if that was Haymitch—jovially booms his goodbyes, sounding positively jolly, and Fulvia trills alongside him. Both Haymitch and Johanna barely spare a look at him as he goes, and I grit my teeth. After all this time, he still doesn't get it. The President exits with a brusque, "See you at dinner," leaving the four of us, Lyme, Beetee, and Gale. I feel my shoulders immediately descend from my ears. Maybe this day will be manageable after all, though I'm still exhausted.

We hear a few of the cars gear up and pull away, and Gale begins to hand us our new jackets, piled on the back of a couch and forgotten. Johanna shrugs into her leather with the star stitched on the back. For me, there is something more comforting, a brown fitted coat that falls to my knees, lined with feather-soft fur of some kind patterned in spots and swirls. It's comfortable but I hate it, because I know it's not Cinna's. I wonder if he's left any other surprises for my propo today, or if I've reached the end of his beautiful hands. I feel a cramp of sadness in my belly thinking about it. Peeta has a similar jacket, and we file outside together into an enormous black car. It's rare that I've even been around cars, which have been reserved for the rich throughout my life—wagons have been far more common for me. This one has luxurious velvet seats and tube lighting around the roof that lights up in shifting colors when we sit. There's a selection of drinks on the sideboard, and I pour myself a deep red liquid that turns out to be some kind of fruit juice. Haymitch, of course, has two inches of liquor in a tumbler before he even sits down. I pour Peeta some juice and he takes my hand with his free hand as I snuggle up against him. As the car starts up, we descend into silence, no doubt all lost in the logistics of the day. Johanna calls up to the driver through a glass partition.

"Hey! How long is this going to take?" It's Gale who answers.

"It's about a thirty minute ride," he tells her.

Not enough time to nap, then, though my eyes are heavy from both lack of sleep and the sedating effects of the pill. I close them anyways, and the rocking of the car soothes me. I don't want to look out the windows. Peeta strokes my hair gently. I hear the clink of bottles, probably as Haymitch pours himself another drink. I have a minute to wonder if he'll be shooting his propo drunk, and then I'm asleep after all.

It's Johanna's slap on my shoulder that wakes me. I'm groggy and I regret the sleep already, since it's not enough. We've stopped in front of a building that is covered with so many decorative flourishes painted so many colors, it looks like it's made of candy. It makes me wince just looking at it. The rain has finally stopped, and I squeeze out the door after Johanna, blinking up at what must be our salon. This part of the city is unfamiliar to me—the streets are wider and there are little tables all over them, presumably outside places to eat. Before I can contemplate any of this further, the doors burst open and my prep team springs upon me, exclaiming over each other in loud, excited voices.

"Katniss, it's so _good_ to see you again!" cries Flavius, just as I hear Octavia, whose skin has returned to a pale lime shade now, cry happily, "Oh, your hair has gotten so _long_!" Flavius' lustrous red ringlets have returned to full form. They've all gained back vibrancy and the weight they lost after their torture in 13, though I doubt they'll ever forget it. Their clothes lack the elaboration they once displayed, but they're in bright, many-layered shades. I think they actually look nicer this way. Venia, in her wisdom, stands back a little, smiling at me but clearly holding herself back from entering the fray. I break loose from the tearful embraces of the other two and move in to hug her. Her hair is shorter and dyed dark blue, streaked with turquoise. Her good tattoos have descended down to her cheeks, I notice.

"Ready for today?" she asks quietly.

"I miss Cinna," I tell her, trying hard not to let my eyes well up as I imagine his gentle voice, how filled with gladness it would be to be a part of my life again. Residual guilt always wells in me when I think of him. My nails dig into my palms as I clench my fists.

"Me, too," she tells me, and I see that even her face is troubled at this memory. Fortunately for us, the others are clamoring all over themselves exclaiming at the sight of me, rushing over to hug Peeta as well. He too looks sad, and I wonder if he was watching when Portia and his own preps were executed for his actions. From the look on his face, I suspect he was. I wonder how I've never asked this in all the time since. Beetee and Gale are looking impassive, Lyme slightly impatient at this raucous reunion. My prep team can be a little hard to handle. After ten minutes or so of exclaiming about my return, pulling at my hands to examine my nails, pinching my sides to see the shape my body is in, and babbling about their current exploits, their new houses, how different the Capitol is, Lyme finally begins to shoo them inside. The place is enormous, partitioned off into many separate rooms lined with mirrors, filled with tables and showers and swiveling chairs. Peeta only has time to give me a quick kiss as we're split up. New prep teams emerge from each room, sweeping the others into their own prep. I have time to notice one of Gale's team, a vivacious young woman with long, loose, pale pink curls, give him a teasing nudge. She says something in his ear that makes him laugh, and I realize that Gale's preps are not new to him. I feel a flash of what almost feels like nausea before they vanish behind a swinging door and I'm tugged through another.

My prep team unceremoniously strips me, clothes me in a thin blue paper gown, and ushers me into an enormous shower in the corner of the room. I am waxed, scrubbed, dipped, exfoliated, shampooed, conditioned, and lotioned down. Then I'm lotioned down again with something different. Though I'm completely unfazed by any of it, being as how I've been through so many rounds of this in my life, after about an hour, as usual, it gets annoying. I've long since begun to tune my team out as they chatter about their new lodging, and how scandalous some of the new laws are, and how glad they are to be back to the banquet food they starved for, when Flavius says something that catches my attention as he's filing my nails into perfect ovals.

"Your new stylist will discuss that with you, of course." At the words "your new stylist," I snap back to attention. "What?" I say. The three of them exchange nervous glances.

"Well, Katniss," says Octavia tentatively, "Of course, they needed to assign someone to help get you ready to appear on camera again today, and, well…" she falters, "Plutarch and Fulvia are quite busy, of course."

_More like they couldn't wait to hand me over to someone else._ I was never exactly easy for them to groom and train and mind, though at the time and under the circumstances, they didn't have much choice in the matter. I feel my skin actually crawl a little at the thought of a new stylist, because even in 13, I was still shooting propos in Cinna's Mockingjay outfit, after all.

"Who is this person?" I demand.

"We don't exactly know," says Venia, the only one who seems to speak directly to me. "We received directions to remake you to Beauty Base Zero. No further instructions were given."

"They have new clothes for me?" This is the only thing I can fixate on, and I feel my chest get tight, like I'm going to cry or stop breathing. Cinna's clothes have become so much a part of my comfort in these awkward situations, always gentle reminders that there is some humanity in this entire process. What if I get some horrible primping, simpering, spoiled Capitol pet? What if I get the stylist I was so dreading ending up with in my first Games? Just as I begin to feel that sense of helplessness rushing back in, Venia hastily fills the void.

"Oh, no, Katniss, of course, Cinna left you enough clothes to last a whole lifetime!"

I exhale slowly and I feel my heart rate begin to return to normal. I momentarily forget the news because of the curiosity that buoys the question to my lips. "But how is that possible? He already left me a whole closet full of things back at 12."

For the first time, Venia laughs. "Katniss, do you remember your talent?"

It takes me a moment to place this comment, and then it comes back to me. At one point, I had an entire train car filled with clothes, because Cinna was covering for my utter lack of talent by producing excess clothes that I supposedly designed, of course. This was really the furthest thing from my mind after the need for such niceties became obsolete.

"They've kept those clothes all this time?" At this, I actually feel a twinge of bittersweet happiness. A whole room filled with Cinna, that I never saw.

Octavia sounds aghast. "Well, they went in storage, didn't they? They would never be thrown away!" Her scandalized tone recalls child murder.

"When can I see them?" I ask. My questions about the stylist issue have totally escaped me at this new information, but then I'm reminded when Flavius glances at the clock. "Well, we have to do your makeup and hair and then you should be about finished with us, so I guess you'll find out soon."

My stomach flutters uncomfortably throughout the tedious process of evening out my skin, brushing, massaging and trimming my hair, exfoliating my lips and curling my eyelashes and yanking painful strips of wax off my forehead. I'm growing steadily more impatient throughout the hour, until the preps step back and fall silent, regarding me. My arms are covered in goosebumps beneath the blue gown and I try not to glare back. After a moment I realize that they're reluctant to leave, and I feel myself soften.

"Look, I'll see you again later today," I tell them. "For that speech, remember?" They look slightly mollified at this, but I see Octavia give a small sniff as she pats my hair. "So good to _see_ you again, Katniss!"

I can't help but smile. They wish me luck and depart, and I have a minute to flash back to that first impression of relief at meeting Cinna, the gold eyeliner, his low, almost musical voice, the hands that could conjure beauty from the air. I swing my feet below the edge of the table and feel about a thousand years old. The minutes tick by. The rooms around me all seem quiet, and so I look up in a flash, the second I hear the creak of a spring.

***_So, I have news for you, readers. In honor of next week's big event (got my Double Feature XD tickets over here!), I'm going to extend an offer. Anyone who writes a review for TL&N between midnight tonight and midnight Friday will be entered into a drawing, and I'll pick a winner on Friday. That person will get written into the new chapter of TL&N as a substantial character. _

_Here are the rules: _

_Submissions must be posted on the review section by 12 AM Eastern Time, 11/1/13. _

_Only one submission per person. _

_Reviews can be positive __**OR**__ constructive criticism (or both)! Just be honest! _

_Reviews have to address at least two of the following: plot, characters, compatibility with canon, innovation,writing, setting. _

_Reviews should be about the entire story, not just one chapter._

_Reviews should be edited so they are legible and comprehensible._

_If you win, you must be ready to promptly respond to some questions about yourself on Friday, as the new chapter will go up on 11/21. _

_Happy reviewing!_


	21. The Stylist and the Squad

_***Congratulations to user BDB84! She was randomly selected from my contest to become Katniss' new stylist in this new chapter. __ Happy Catching Fire week, everyone!_

I'm ready for the hostility I'm assuming is imminent, since I'm ordinarily programmed to despise anyone unfamiliar, especially if I meet them here, and the ache in my heart for Cinna seems to stab me with every breath. I'm prickly that they could ever assume, or even try, to replace him, after all he did for me. What I'm not prepared for is the weight of the sadness that hits me, full-bore, as I realize, looking up and with utter finality, that he is gone. I thought I knew this, but I only really know it when a stylist enters who is mine, and it is not him. This stylist, in fact, looks about as far from Cinna as I could get. I assess her coolly, not moving from my perch in this uncomfortable gown, feet dangling. She enters slowly, as though determined not to spook me. The first thing I notice is her hair; though as flaxen as Prim's—another stab—it's draped over one shoulder in a long, careful braid, like mine. Even braided, it descends almost as far as her waist. She's slender, maybe Johanna's age or a little older, with open, calmly assessing eyes that meet mine without trepidation. She's taller than me, but not by much, and I take in on my first glance that she's wearing some kind of high, laced brown boots not unlike the pair I wore in the first arena, only with stacked heels that add a few more inches to the few she already has on me. She's dressed in straight, simple chocolate-colored pants made from some cottony material and a silky, draped shirt patterned with pink blooms and with long, flowing sleeves, open to her waist in the back and then tied in a neat bow. Her golden eyelashes are long and lush like Peeta's. The only concession I can see to Capitol fashion trends are elaborate tattoos of what look from here like fish in shades of blue and green and turquoise on the inside of each wrist. Her hand with makeup has been extremely light. Despite the long pants and the drape of the shirt, I can tell she's strong, wiry.

This is as far as I get before there's a tremendous CLANG that makes me leap about a mile off the table, and then the fashionable stylist with the lovely hair who isn't Cinna is sprawled at my feet, hands covering her face. I jump off the table, not because I'm feeling particularly gracious—in fact, I'm ashamed that I feel a bit smug—but because I can't _not_ extend her a hand. I'm trying unsuccessfully to conceal the smirk I can feel on my lips. A muffled voice sounds from between her hands.

"That was not how I planned on meeting you," she mumbles. Then she removes her hands and scowls, not at me, but at her feet. "It's these damn boots. I can't walk with heels." Almost violently, she begins to yank on the laces. My eyebrows must rise into my hair, but she yanks them off angrily with savage satisfaction and I see her blinking back tears. I don't know what to do with this information and, as her bare feet, toenails painted a careful shade of lilac, emerge, I begin to laugh. Some of it must be stress, but I can't stop myself. She looks up, face flushed, but when she sees I'm not laughing at her she smiles wryly. I hold my stomach and laugh and laugh. The whole situation is so ridiculous. Me naked in this gown in the Capitol, mourning all my dead friends, some stylist girl splayed beneath my feet like a subject in a king's court. My eyes are watering and my chest hurts by the time I can stop myself. She's gotten to her feet and extends her hand as I calm down, little giggles still bubbling up.

"I'm Brandi, and I'm sorry," she says. Her voice is deep for a girl, and calm.

"You're awfully clumsy!" I giggle. I can't help myself.

"I know," she says, looking a little embarrassed. She looks at her bare toes and wiggles them. "But I think _that_ will help." I look down and start laughing again. This time she laughs too. I take a deep breath and finally stop. In a way, I'm glad she tripped, because I've been able to swallow the bitterness in my throat in the interim, and somehow, some way, it's made me like her more.

"So, I bet you're thrilled to see me," she tells me, and I shake my head. "Not really," I say honestly. "I've had enough of this to last a lifetime."

She nods seriously. "I know. We're going to take it nice and easy today, if that's okay with you."

"Sounds great," I say honestly. Nice and easy is about all I can handle.

"I think your prep team probably let you know that we still have a lot of clothing that your previous stylist left behind for you," she tells me. I bite back the ache again and nod. "We'll be using some of that today. I'd like some input from you on what you feel comfortable wearing. I'm thinking we should probably pick something that reflects your District a bit, give some reference to the fact that you're back at home in something more or less resembling your own life. Peeta's stylist will be taking the same approach."

This sounds divine to me. I wasn't looking forward to being primped and prodded into one of Effie's uncomfortable dresses and high heels, a face full of makeup. As though she's reading my thoughts, my new stylist adds, "We'll go light on the makeup, too, I think." She tips my chin up with one hand and smiles. "You have lovely eyes."

"Thanks?" I say. I'm used to things like this coming from Peeta, but that's about it. She crosses to the corner of the room where some kind of rack on wheels has been inconspicuously placed. I didn't notice it until now, when she whips off the cloth cover and instantly, I catch my breath, because Cinna is right there in the room with me. I can almost feel his warm hands on my shoulders, the comfort of these clothes. Fitted, tailored red pants that cling tightly and zip up my calves. A thin black shell with little straps meant to be worn under a soft, elbow length button-down shirt, threaded with tiny red pinstripes and open at my throat. Black wrap made from some heavy, ribbed material that drapes artfully over one shoulder and pins at the joint. And boots such as I've never seen, red boots with black leather trim that lace to my knees over the pants. I can see immediately how these clothes reflect the simpler fabrics of District 12, but also how they are different, how they will conform to my body in places but still be comfortable and allow me to breathe. The pants are really quite spectacular. My stylist must see me smiling because she begins to take items down and carry them over to me.

"I brought a few other things over"—indeed, I see several other items of clothing hanging on the rack—"but I thought we'd try this first." She helps me dress as I struggle with the form-fitting pants for a minute, kneels to lace up the boots, arranges the wrap over my shoulder and, smiling, produces my pin from a pants pocket. I blink. Last I saw it, it was pinned to my Mockingjay outfit, but here it is once more. She affixes it to close the wrap and then turns me by my shoulders to face a long mirror. My hair is still loose and my face free from makeup, but the outfit has the desired effect. In it I feel stronger, but still like myself. It gives me just enough of a shield to face the Capitol as more than the girl who only wants to hole up in Peeta's arms and cry, but not so much that I feel like a puppet. The shirt is as soft as a kitten, with a homey, worn-in feel.

"Gorgeous," she echoes behind me, and I nod.

She opts to pull my hair into a version of her own, a braid that drapes to one side instead of my usual one down my back, and sprays it with something to make it shiny. For the first time, as she pulls a palette of little bottles and jars and flat cases from a vanity, I have a say in what I want on my face, vetoing a lipstick she favors until we agree on something more subtle, helping determine what shade of auburn eyeliner will help my eyes stand out. Unlike Cinna, she tries on one color, lets me look, and then erases it to try on something else. It's refreshing. Despite myself, I like her. She's talkative but businesslike, and eschews the superficial Capitol chatter I'm used to from my preps.

"I was terrified again that I'd get some stuck-up Capitol fashion plate," I admit, as she carefully outlines my eyelids.

"I'm not from here," she tells me, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "I came here after the war. I spent years watching the Games and I was inspired to learn their tricks. I made all my own clothes back home. When I had the chance to come here and work, I snapped it up. The fabrics they let you work with here are like nothing I'd ever have been able to afford at home, even saving up."

I'm surprised, and this lends itself to a lot of questions.

"Where are you from? You're making your own clothes? Why…didn't they ask me to wear yours?" What I almost ask is, "Why aren't I wearing _your_ clothes?" but I catch myself, because it feels disloyal to Cinna and given the choice, I'm pretty sure I would pick his, anyways.

"I do, yes," she says, stopping adjusting my makeup for a moment to answer. "Although I'm studying under someone else here to learn more. There are few opportunities these days to really exercise skill in styling, now that the Games are over, for a wider audience. I guess my mentor must trust me a lot, to send me in to see you." The implications of this make me grin, despite myself—she implies it's more than just my status that makes me daunting.

"I'd like to see your work," I tell her, and it slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. She laughs. "Maybe," she says. "We'll see. Cinna left you plenty for your address and for dinner later tonight. Although if it's fine with you, I'd just as soon attend dinner. The food in the Capitol is great."

_A girl after my own heart_, I think.

"Where are you from?" I ask her again.

"District 4, originally," she tells me. "Stay still, I'm almost done." My eyes dart to the fish tattoos and I understand. My mouth is being spectacularly traitorous today because something else blurts out before I can anticipate it.

"Did you know Finnick?" I ask. Her eyes flicker to mine again in the mirror, and I can see the sadness in them.

"I did," she says. "Not well, but I did. He was in the class below mine at school. How he used to make us laugh with the antics he'd pull when the instructors weren't looking." Free and easy Finnick, self-deprecating and sweet. "All the girls would fall all over themselves just to walk next to him for lunch." I smile.

"Done," Brandi says, adding a final touch to my face and stepping back. "What do you think?" I assess myself. The makeup resembles a bit the makeup that I used to have in the first Games, when Cinna didn't want to make me too unrecognizable. It's just enough to enhance my features, but not too much. My skin is smoother, my eyes a little deeper, my hair a little silkier. She's expertly and swiftly covered up the majority of the burn tissue that still mars my jawline and neck from that final blast, but not so thickly that it's invisible. I guess she thinks it's good for everyone to see that I'm still healing, like them, in all sorts of ways.

"I think your mentor was right to trust you," I tell her, and I see her flush a bit. "I'm glad you're satisfied," she says, a little brusquely, I think to cover up her pleasure at the compliment. "The other stylists should be finishing up now."

I hear the doors, sure enough, begin to swing on their hinges. All of a sudden I miss Peeta. "Can I go see the others now?"

"Sure," she says, "The stylists will be coming with you to the shoot in another car, so I'll be seeing more of you later on today."

"Okay," I say, and she throws me another lovely smile before I exit through the swinging doors to find Peeta. She's no Cinna, but of course, no one will ever replace Cinna.

Peeta's outfit resembles mine, only his pants are black and he wears a red shirt, sleeves carefully but casually rolled up, his hair tousled but obviously styled so as to appear windswept, the curls more defined than usual. He kisses my cheek when I approach him. "What do you think of your new stylist?" I ask him, but before he can answer, Lyme is emerging through the front door as Johanna, looking gorgeous in shades of mahogany and deep amber and russet patched pants, emerges from another door, her wide eyes made wider by some makeup trick. Haymitch bangs his open in quick succession, although it doesn't look to me like he's acquiesced to much besides being slapped into a clean pair of pants and a collared shirt and having himself bathed and his hair brushed. He too wears fire tones—deep orange and charcoal black, like us.

"We're on a schedule," Lyme reminds us, and unbelievably, I wish it were Effie's dulcet tones, instead, trying to corral our unruly group. Beetee's wandered in, and as the room begins to crowd with us and our new stylists—who, of course, I can't differentiate—I crane my neck around, trying to see who we're missing. The top of Gale's tall head begins to break through towards us, but I see him turned, appearing to be in conversation with someone else. I stand on my tiptoes, but Peeta recognizes her before I can, because I hear his happy intake of breath.

"Annie! Hey, Annie!" he calls happily, and as if by some unspoken signal, the crowd parts. Annie Cresta emerges. Her dark hair falls in smooth, rippling waves to the small of her back, cascading over a simple, long dress of deep sea green tied at the waist with a gorgeously embroidered belt, layered with a long, knit shawl of cobalt blue. Her eyes grow questioning for a moment—I see that Gale's arm has been guiding her out—but when she sees us, they clear and she cocks her head, as though listening to something we can't hear. Everything seems to freeze for just a second, but Peeta, being Peeta, is holding out his arms happily, and finally her silver slipper-clad feet move her forward and she accepts the embrace, tentatively at first and then more fully. I see her whisper something to Peeta and he nods, taking her by the shoulders gently and whispering something back. I look up to see everyone smiling just at her presence. I think again how much I miss Finnick and how much I'd love to see their baby.

"Congratulations on the baby," I address her. "Thank you," she says, almost shyly, twisting her hands nervously in front of her. "Feeling okay about today?" I ask.

She chews at the side of her cheek and her brow knits together, and I hope I haven't tripped some unseen wire, but she surprises me and says, very seriously, "I'm going to hug you now, okay?"

"Okay," I agree, and when she steps in to hug me, she smells like seagrass and lavender and that soft curtain of dark hair enfolds me. We stand together and just breathe, in and out. She doesn't let go, and neither do I. I close my eyes. In and out. In and out. As though we're drawing strength from this simple moment. Though I know we're running late, no one speaks, or even moves. We pull away together, and I touch her cheek lightly with two fingers. She puts two fingers on top of mine, and then says again, "Okay."

This kicks everyone into action, and in a finely-dressed rush, all of us begin to queue towards the door. Peeta takes my hand and holds on to me. It takes me a minute to realize this might be more for him than for me. I want to ask him about the past few hours, tell him about my new stylist, but there's so much commotion getting the crowd of Victors out the door, the stylists following behind to their own car. I don't recognize anyone in the crowd of stylists, but then, a lot of Capitol people died in the war too, especially the ones associated with the Victors. We file into another long, black car idling outside the building, and I'm getting nervous again, though Lyme reassures us it's a shorter ride this time to the park where we'll be shooting our propos. No one has coached us on what we'll be saying; there's been no elaborate staging beforehand, like I'm used to. The camera people must be there already. I feel a stab for yet more people killed in the war. Castor, eaten by the pack of lizard mutts that took Finnick from us, deep under the streets of the city that we're driving over. My breathing begins to quicken. Peeta doesn't notice right away, and I'm sure that this is because he's fighting his own demons—what we saw as we fought our way towards the Capitol were not the only things buried under the city. Gale does though, probably because he remembers it, like I do. I see him mouth the words at me.

"It's not real."

He's right, I remind myself. I swallow and nod back, mouthing the word "thanks." His eyes look troubled for me still, so I mouth, "I'm okay." I'm safe now. That's over now. The horrors in those tunnels have been razed, the mutts eradicated forever. But it _was_ real, and that's the part I can't let go, always lugging the past around like a giant boulder on my back. I begin to bite the insides of my lips until they bleed. I refocus on Peeta, who needs me too. I lean into him and kiss his neck quickly. This is what brings Peeta back, the way he's always been quieted from nightmares by my mere presence. He turns to me and his response begins to have that effect on me, too. I brush his hair out of his eyes and he even gives me a smile. I feel a little guilty with Gale sitting right across from us, but I'm not forgetting Peeta this morning with me in the bathroom as I struggled to choke back the rest of my stomach.

"You okay?" I ask him quietly.

"Nope," he says. At least one of us is honest. I squeeze his hand, because there's nothing I can really say to change that, no words of comfort. Surprisingly, it's Annie who lifts his spirits, not me.

"Peeta," she calls from her seat next to Gale, "Are you still painting?" He turns to look at her open, interested face and I can feel his body next to me as it relaxes the tiniest bit. He's smiling to her as he talks about the bakery they're trying to rebuild, and I silently thank her inside my head. I don't know if she's that intuitive or just curious, but it doesn't really matter. Soon we're saved anyways, as the car begins to slow at a curb and then stops. Lyme climbs out, gesturing for all of us to follow. I'm sure Gale and Beetee are used to finding their way around the Capitol now, but the four of us are tense. I see Haymitch take another quick swig from his flask before joining us outside. I begin to look around, taking in my surroundings. There's something that looks like a pavilion rising from the edge of a pond framed with lush willow trees. I can hear birds—not Mockingjays—singing in the bushes. A smooth green expanse of lawn extends in all directions, intersected with loops of a rock-lined pathway that wanders under the trees. I notice flowerbeds, no doubt planted for spring, everywhere, arbors covered with vines. At my feet, poking up from one of the beds, are the first spring flowers—crocuses. It's a lovely location, but I only see it peripherally, because in the distance—I could spot her vine tattoos from a mile away, and there he is, climbing into that old insect shell—are Cressida and Pollux, setting up equipment under the pavilion. I drop Peeta's hand without a thought and then I'm taking off over the lawn, my boots gripping the ground as I move through space without thinking. Pollux turns just in time to catch me. He's laughing, a sound that's much different coming from the mouths of Avoxes, but unmistakable. Cressida is beaming at me. Pollux actually picks me up, lifting me in the air in front of him, and when he puts me down, I kiss his cheek and he blushes. I reach for Cressida and she hugs me tightly.

"How _are_ you, Katniss?" she exclaims. "We were excited to learn we were seeing all of you again today!" The others are still catching up as I realize that this is something that at least some of them already knew. I have a moment of annoyance that no one filled me in, but it's swept away by my gladness at seeing them here after so long—more friendly faces. Pollux has one hand on my shoulder and I reach back and squeeze it.

"I'm having a little bit of a hard time, being here," I admit to her. "It makes it easier to see people I know, though."

Pollux taps me and then gestures towards Cressida and himself, and nods in agreement. "We don't like it much, either," she confirms. "It's a bit easier to shoot out in the districts, but of course, we wouldn't miss the chance to see you again, and the President thought it might be easier to have people you know around to shoot these new propos, of course." When I realize she'll be directing me, I instantly stop caring what the content of the propos is, because Cressida knows me, knows how to work with me to get the footage they need, when to step back. Cressida has power in this way.

The others have caught up and though Johanna, Haymitch, Annie and Beetee give friendly waves and nods as they approach, Gale and Peeta approach side-by-side. Peeta shakes Pollux' hand warmly while Gale hugs Cressida. Of course, they were there too—the last remaining members of Squad 451, standing under this pavilion, as a reunion. And though so many of us didn't make it out of that final, nightmarish trek underground, we did, and I'm suddenly so grateful to be standing among them, between Gale and Peeta, both of whom I was sure I would lose. I remember the terror vividly. I turn to look behind me and Lyme is standing, arms crossed but smiling, waiting us out. I mouth a thank you to her, too, and she surprises me by winking back. Gale and Peeta switch greetings, and once everyone's been properly reintroduced again, Lyme lets us know that of course, Cressida will be directing us this afternoon. Each of us will be asked to talk for about twenty minutes, and this will be edited down. Peeta and I will give an additional interview together. Extra camerapeople are arriving so we can shorten the shoot by doing several interviews at once, but Cressida has been given the helm of the shoot. The idea is simple—we're asked to talk about our lives after the war, being back in our districts, and the new government. Lyme interjects here.

"Try to stress the differences between the old and new governments, please. Don't mention specific policies that we've discussed in our meetings, as many of those details are for private record, but you can speak more generally." She turns pointedly towards our little group of four, who have coalesced together again without my noticing. I doubt she's too concerned with Peeta, so it's really Johanna, Haymitch and I who she's addressing. "Keep in mind the seriousness of our first chance to have you communicate with the Capitol citizens after the upheaval. What you say today has weighty political capital after your high-visibility positions in the war. We will not ask you to do this frequently, but we will ask you to do it right today." There's a note of warning in her voice that's new so far today. I suspect she's willing to threaten us with re-shoots if we can't get it together, and as none of us wants to extend our stay here, it benefits us to behave ourselves the first time around, which I'm sure they realize. Johanna's looking underwhelmed but she manages to resist an eye-roll. Haymitch looks as surly and uncompromising as ever, and an irresistible urge to mock him begins to bloom in me when I remember how he always got to be behind the camera during my shoots, helping to order me around and get me in line, laughing at my inability to fake emotion. I'm glad Fulvia and Plutarch haven't been invited to this particular party. I don't think that's an accident.

"Dance, puppets," I hear Johanna mutter under her breath. I poke her boot with mine in the grass. I'm on the receiving end of the eye-roll this time.

"Try to be relaxed," Lyme continues. "This is supposed to be an informal shoot. Our aim is to let the citizens of the Capitol know that you're still invested in the success of the country and the rebuilding, and that you share some of their experiences and concerns."

"And to make the new government look good," adds Haymitch.

"Or at least not to make it look bad," counters Lyme. "I urge you all to remember that there is very little chance you would even be standing here to talk about it, if the old government was still in place." _Can't argue that_. I rarely think about this reality, but she's not wrong. The plan was for me to die in the Quell, after all.

"Any questions?" Annie has picked a purple crocus and is dreamily pulling the petals off one by one. Gale looks impatient.

"You reserve the right to not answer questions that make you uncomfortable," Lyme says, looking at him. I wince, inwardly, thinking about which questions exactly they would be, for Gale.

"Let's get started," Cressida says, and the camerapeople lined up behind her leap into action. Johanna, Gale, Annie and I are swept away. I have time for a quick hug with Peeta before I am tugged under the pavilion. Annie is led towards the pond under the willows, and I see Johanna pointing towards a bench set up by a path in the distance. I notice that the corner of the park we're in is either strikingly underpopulated, or it must be cordoned off somehow, because none of us see any citizens wandering in or out. Gale moves away too, and I lose sight of all of them as I am seated and arranged into position, my hands clasped in my lap. I try to remind myself not to twist them together nervously. Lights in the corners are positioned and I notice that at some point Brandi must have arrived, because she steps in quickly to adjust my hair, and smiles at me. "Looking good, Katniss," she tells me.

"Alright, Katniss, Pollux will be shooting you and Peeta, since we wanted to keep you especially with someone you'd know," Cressida says. Notoriety has its perks.

"I'm going to start with some simple questions," she says. "You let me know if you need a break, okay?" I nod nervously. My stomach is roiling. I'm glad this is before lunch, and before my speech, so I have time to get my mind in order. It's been awhile since I've been asked to perform, but my crew, of course, knows this.

"Now, what's changed for you since you returned to District 12 after the war?" Cressida asks me, and the red light blinks on, and I begin to talk.

It's easier than I think it will be. Peeta sits by Brandi behind the camera to watch, and I focus on them when I get stuck. I talk about going home, about the rebuilding crew—the higher-ups will love that—the freedom to spend time in my woods without threats, and of course, living with Peeta in our house. I can only imagine the sighs and tears this will invoke around Panem, but I can't keep the happiness out of my voice as I watch him smile behind the camera.

"Also, the food has gotten a lot better!" I blurt out, and I see Brandi laugh. It's true, we've gotten a lot more food since the war has ended, even with the shortages and the trouble with transportation. This new government is much more invested in their population not starving to death. They can't really afford to lose more of us, anyways.

After this, Cressida fields me a harder question.

"What's it like, not having everyone from your original district around?" She is careful not to mention my sister, but I know this question implies Gale, his family, my mother. I swallow hard. I wish there were a big clock—this is the first and last time I will _ever_ wish for a big clock, I think ironically—counting down the minutes until this is over. I take a minute to answer and all is quiet. Far in the distance, I hear Johanna speaking. Cressida and Pollux wait. I see Peeta nodding silently to me. _You can do this_, it says.

"Hard, of course," I begin to speak. "I miss…a lot of people. It's not the same. We knew it wasn't going to be the same. But…" I feel my face almost begin to crumple and I will it to stay composed, "We know we're not the only ones who have lost people they love in this war. Everyone's going to have to heal, I guess. What we did had to be done."

Cressida mercifully switches subjects then, and asks how the new government compares to the old. I behave myself, mentioning the new rights guaranteed the citizens, the lack of starving kids. I don't mention the elimination of the Hunger Games because I'm not sure if I'm allowed to speak about it, but I do mention how much I'm looking forward to not having a Reaping this year. I talk about the relief at having slipped loose from Snow's regime.

"And what do you want to say to all the people who are watching you now, who have been wondering how you are all this time?" she follows up, and I sense this is the end.

I think carefully for a moment.

"I feel your pain," I say simply. "Really, I do. But it's a little less every day for me, just a little less, and I hope it is for you, too."

"That's a wrap," says Cressida, the light blinks off, and I exhale and lean forward to put my head in my hands.

"That was exhausting," my voice is muffled through them. Indeed, I feel suddenly wasted, as though they've taken everything I have.

"You did great," says Brandi, and then Peeta is there, pulling me onto his lap for a minute as we rest. Without Gale there I'm more comfortable slumping into his closeness and he cradles me gently. "She's right, you know," he says to me. "On the next one we'll go together, after I'm done." I dread having to do this again, but it will undoubtedly be easier with Peeta there. More joy, too.

I take his place behind the camera as what must be his stylist—a woman with brown skin and a severe, geometric haircut and bright red lipstick—comes forward to turn him towards the camera. She has an easy manner about her, teasing him about the curls that keep falling in his eyes and the girls who will swoon over them. I think she's a fine match for Peeta's easiness. He begins to talk and like always, it's smooth, calm, and funny. He tells stories about living with Buttercup and how I can swing a sledge "just like a man," to knock down buildings in the square. He talks about baking, painting, our book project. As always, I'm envious of this ease, his rapport.

His interview seems to go fast. Pollux hands out bottles of water to all of us as he rises, stretches, and comes over to sit by me. Looking at the shadows under his eyes, I know that even for him, these interviews are taxing. I lean my head on his shoulder.

"We'll take a rest for a bit, shall we?" says Cressida. "We're on time, anyways. After this, we'll have a bit to eat before you move on through the rest of your day." She and Peeta's stylist and the camerapeople all sit on the grass a little ways away from us, chatting amiably.

"Our big, big, big day," I whisper softly.

I wonder where lunch will be, since I don't remember being given a location. After that are mental health check-ins, which I'm dreading, but I can't think that far ahead today. I need to focus on each thing at a time, otherwise I feel like I might go crazy. At least I'm a little hungry, though.

Without warning, a huge yellow missile shoots between our two groups and Cressida shrieks. I jump to my feet, my hand flying to my shoulder automatically looking for an arrow, of course. Only Peeta is calm, and he whistles. 

"Come, boy!" I lower my hand and sigh exasperatedly, because sure enough, there's Johanna loping across the grass towards us, her laughter leading, as her giant yellow dog bounds up to Peeta and leaps on him with such force, trying to lick his face, that Peeta's bad leg wobbles and he almost goes down. I grab his arm to steady him.

"Johanna, control this animal, please," I groan. The dog is whining and pressing his nose into Peeta's hand, getting yellow fur all over the bottom of my pants. Pollux surprises me and stands up, smiling and holding out his hand. Mutt changes direction and storms towards him. Johanna flops down beside us, chewing on a piece of grass.

"How did your dog get here?" I ask her, wrapping a protective arm around Peeta's waist.

Johanna averts her eyes for a second, and when she speaks, I know she's not telling me the whole story. "I mentioned him to someone, and they thought it would add a bit of color to my propo, you know. He is colorful." She recovers and smirks at both of us.

"Yeah, yellow," I groan, trying to brush fur off us both to no avail. I know Johanna well enough to know what she's not saying—they've brought Mutt over especially because she was having trouble performing for their cameras. From the way she avoids the subject, I suspect it's out of anxiety rather than fury. But whoever's idea it was, it was a good one. Johanna is indeed much calmer around her dog in just about any circumstance. She pulls a bit of something out of her pocket and he runs over and grabs it, flopping on the grass to chew.

"Aren't you two DONE yet?" she asks us, as the camerapeople begin to rise and stretch. "I've just finished up, and the others are done too now, I think." I glance over to see Gale sitting on a stump by the pond with Annie, who's picking flowers from the edge of the water and weaving them into a chain that grows longer as I watch. I don't see Beetee or Haymitch anywhere but I guess she means them, too.

"How'd Haymitch do?" I can't help but ask. She shakes her head and looks down at the dog, avoiding the question. "He couldn't exactly drink through the entire thing." I make a mental note to check on him as soon as we're done.

"They say someone is bringing food over here, though," she says. "Before we have to head over to their bullshit check-ins." She puts this last word in air-quotes as though it's a concept they've made up entirely. "That reminds me." She pulls a small silver box from one pocket, expertly flips it open with one thumb, and produces a small blue pill like the one she gave me this morning. She pops it into her mouth, swallows, and grins a sharklike grin. "Of course, I'm going to be so high by the time I get there that everything will be a-okay." I worry when Johanna relies too much on the Capitol's drugs, although I understand it entirely, but I see her point. Her baseline state is utter hostility and contempt, and it's bad news for all of us, though mostly her, if she goes into this appointment radiating those emotions. At best, it'll keep us all here longer, at worst, they might decide she needs some sort of drastic measures taken, even though as far as I can tell, she's doing pretty damn great, all things considered.

"Ooo, goody, I get to watch you snuggle up on camera again," she smirks at me. "I haven't seen enough of that in my life so I'm so glad I'll get to fix the deficit." I sigh. I'm sick of shooting anyways, but having Johanna behind us making faces isn't going to make it any easier…though it might make it more fun, I suppose.

"Can't you take your dog to fetch a stick or something?" I ask her.

"Now why would I do that, when there's so much fun happening here, brainless?" she retorts, and I can't help but grin. She takes a seat and Peeta and I are led back over to our seat. We begin next to one another, but Peeta scoops me into his lap to Cressida's approving nods, and we begin. She asks us questions about how we've grown together since moving back home, what challenges we've had to face—I have to let Peeta answer this one, because when I swallow to answer I hear a click in my throat, thinking of last night, and my eyes begin to burn in a way that signals tears are close at hand. I train my eyes on Johanna, and far from interfering, she nods reassuringly to me, one hand stroking her dog as the other gives me a thumbs-up. Cressida asks about our house and I brighten, because that's something about home that I love and I'm excited by the very thought of being back. Every now and then, I kiss Peeta's cheek. It's so funny how natural this all seems at this point, even in front of Capitol cameras. It used to feel so stilted, false and uncomfortable all the time—which for me, it was—but now it's reassuring, holding on to Peeta, listening to him unspool our story. I feel a strange emotion inside me that I can't place, until I realize it's some alien feeling of glad anticipation, not just for us, but for the people who will see this propo—people across Panem who I know have been cheering us on. This seems uncharacteristic and I try to push the thought away, but behind it glows a reality I can't deny—we have made it. Through all of it, we have made it out, against all the odds, and we've found and kept each other, and I am, with Peeta, happier than I dared to think I could be, no matter what scars from the war and the Games we still bear.

With Peeta, the time goes faster, and before I know it, Cressida calls, "That's a wrap!" Then, almost deliriously pleased with herself, she sings out, "Oh, Panem will _love_ to see the two of you together again!" For a moment she sounds more like Effie than herself, but I realize that for her to get the scoop of resurrecting the Victors must be quiet a professional achievement.

"Soooo cute, I'm crying on the inside," Johanna calls as soon as the light blinks off.

A new black car arrives soon after we finish, loaded with baskets containing thick ham and roast beef sandwiches, fruit, tea, crackers, cheese, carrot sticks, more water. My stomach is rumbling as a delicious smell wafts from them as they're deposited near the benches lining the pavilion. I remember that it's been awhile since I've eaten, being as how breakfast made its reappearance almost immediately. I see Gale offer Annie a hand up as the two of them notice the trucks and move towards the rest of us. Other camera teams begin to filter towards us, and I see Beetee chatting animatedly with one of them as he shows off something on his camera. I have no idea where Lyme had gone, but she, too, shows up, talking into a small, flat, square metal phone with a glass cover—something about a time crunch—and sounding worn. Haymitch is the sole figure that does not appear, as I scan the park rapidly with my eyes.

"Lyme, where's Haymitch?" I ask, forgetting to use her title and rudely interrupting her conversation. She shakes her head at me, raising a hand. Impatiently, I bounce on my feet as the others begin to distribute food for all of us. Peeta moves up to get sandwiches for both of us, and he, Johanna, Annie and Gale take a seat together in the sun. Peeta keeps throwing little glances back to me as I wait impatiently. It seems to take forever, but finally the Vice President hangs up her call.

"Where's Haymitch?" I ask again. She looks me up and down and then says, "Why don't you eat something first, and then we'll go get him." It's phrased as a command, not a question. I'm beginning to get worried since everyone else seems to be here, but as though she's reading my thoughts, Lyme adds, "He has someone keeping an eye on him, Katniss. Give me some credit." Seeing no alternative, I nod and move to sit with the others, and Peeta hands me half a roast beef. I immediately dig in, but I can't stop myself from asking, mouth full, "Does anyone know where Haymitch is?"

"They were going to shoot him after I finished," Annie says dreamily. She's wearing the daisies she was weaving around her neck, like a necklace, and picking pieces out of a roll. Her feet are bare. "But I went to talk to Gale and didn't see."

Gale looks around, noticing Haymitch's absence. "That's strange," he says.

"Lyme told me he was off somewhere but she won't take me to find out what's up until after I eat," I say, wolfing down the other half of my sandwich to finish faster.

It's Johanna who speaks.

"Couldn't do it," she says shortly, filling in her offhand comment about his drinking from before. I don't ask how she knows this, or what he couldn't do, since I know the answer. Her eyes have gone flat and dangerous again. Seeing him not appear has clearly solidified whatever her doubts were from before. The others look at her and fall silent, but she merely shrugs and picks up an apple, taking a deep, vicious bite. Her other hand opens the pouch at her waist expertly and begins flipping that knife blade open and closed, open and closed again.

A million questions run through my head as we mull this over in silence, and although the food tastes great and the warm sun feels wonderful as I sit with Peeta and the others, I jump to my feet the second I finish. "I've gotta go find him," I say.

"Do you want me to go?" Peeta asks immediately. I shake my head. Who knows what I'll find when I get there.

"It might be better if it's just me," I tell him, and he nods. Lyme sees me standing impatiently, craning my neck around, and I see her speak quietly to Pollux, sitting near her and listening to the animated conversation bouncing around. He nods. She speaks and he nods again, and then stands and walks over to me. Offering me his hand, I take it and we begin to walk. I want to ask him where we're going, what's going on, but Lyme waves a hand at our backs and so I turn around and move away. Pollux can't answer my questions. He squeezes my hand, though, and we begin to cross the vast expanse of lawn, the sounds below us slowly quieting as we put distance between the others and ourselves. It's only when I hear the unmistakable raised, growling shout that I know so well coming from a clump of trees a few hundred yards ahead of us that I drop Pollux' hand and break into a run.


	22. The Kids

When I reach him he's lying flat on his back on the grass, eyes closed, muttering something to himself under his breath. A tall young man halfway dressed in his cameraman insect shell stands beside him. He can't be much older than me, and he looks tired. I don't blame him. Lying next to Haymitch is not one, but two silver flasks, their caps unscrewed, and I have plenty of experience dealing with Haymitch when he's loaded. I'm torn between disgust and a species of exhausted pity. Really, did I think any of us were going to sail through this untouched?

I'm not sure what question to ask first. _What happened?_ rises in my throat, but really, the answer to that seems self-evident. Finally I settle on something trivial.

"Where did he get that other flask from?" I query. The young man shrugs helplessly. I wonder why he hasn't tried to pick Haymitch up and get him over to where the rest of us are. Maybe getting some food into him would help mediate the effects of the alcohol. But apparently I haven't given him enough credit, because when I lean down and reach for Haymitch's arm his eyes fly open and the knife I hadn't even identified speeds out from under his coat and fluidly stabs the ground between my feet. I have a second to wonder if his aim is bad or if he was just trying to drive me off. I stop, hand halfway extended.

"I'm out of this nonsense," snarls Haymitch, his voice unsteady. I remain silent, as this is rather general. I raise my eyebrows at him but I don't know that he even notices it. His eyes are stormclouds of rage and bitterness even behind the haze of booze.

"I didn't sign up for this!" Haymitch howls ineffectually. "I came for you!" He unleashes a torrent of expletives, I don't know if at me, at the Capitol, or for no reason at all. "I've spent how many years being dragged back here! Now I'm supposed to…supposed to…_what do they expect me to say_?"

This gives me pause. Really, what DO they expect Haymitch to say? We've all been instructed to talk about our lives. For Peeta and I, that means growing together, living together, working together. For Johanna it means her dog, her solitude, peace and quiet, us. For Gale and Beetee, it's all about rebuilding, making things new again. Annie has a child. Haymitch? Haymitch is where Haymitch has always been, drinking himself into oblivion to try to forget the family he lost, the terrible things he's done, and the Tributes he mentored only to watch them die, year after year, in the Games. Haymitch has no lover, no child, no pet, no lovely story of change and growth to tell the cameras. He only has the ability to get out of bed most mornings, to occasionally sit down for a meal with the only people in his life that matter at all—us. Change came early in the lives of Peeta, Johanna, Annie, Gale and I. By the time change came for Haymitch, he had already given up. What did they expect?

"You don't have to say anything," I tell him.

"Oh, yes, I do!" he snaps. "I have to bow down with gratitude that they've _rescued_ me, describe my _new life_ in this _wonderful government_." His voice drips a sneer with every syllable. The cameraman winces.

"No, you don't," I tell him firmly. "They'll just have to do without."

He glares dolefully at me. "Right, so we can move on to some other space where I can spill all my turmoil, pour out all my troubles and sorrows and _be healed_, isn't that right, Mockingjay?"

Mental health check-ins. _Shit._

"Can we just do this one step at a time? Come on, Haymitch, pull it together, let's get all this crap done today so we can go home." I hope maybe this will motivate him.

"There isn't any home," he mumbles, and rolls over to vomit on the grass.

With the help of the cameraman, I half-carry, half-drag him back to the others. Lyme has sent the camerapeople away ("Of course, Katniss, you'll see your friends at the dinner," she reassures me when I look mutinous) and Annie, Beetee, and Gale have headed over to their own check-in. Peeta and Johanna stand, expectant. Johanna looks utterly unsurprised, Peeta dismayed at Haymitch's condition.

"We have to…" begins Lyme.

"We know!" I snap before she can order us off to the next thing. I'm at a loss, for once, as to what to do with Haymitch. "But don't you think what's happening right now constitutes Haymitch's mental health check-in?"

_What a nightmare._ Bad dreams, visions, anxiety attacks, substance abuse. Our mental health is worse now than it was three days ago.

Peeta speaks quietly. "Vice President, it might be best for Haymitch if you just let him get some rest right now. I don't think it's going to help to bring him along with us."

"I'm not going anywhere!" Haymitch splutters, and dry-heaves again.

"He shouldn't have been drinking," says Lyme. "Drinking is not perm…."

"We KNOW!" seethes Johanna, that familiar bite in her tone. "Thanks for the update. Do you have any other useful information?" Lyme gives her a warning glance and Johanna glares fearlessly back at her. Lyme stands silent, weighing her options, and when she speaks, she sounds resigned and worn-out. She looks at the cameraman who's still helping me hold Haymitch up, and tells him, "Take him back. And stay with him."

The rest of us are loaded into another car as a half-conscious Haymitch is returned to our house. _Wish I was going_, I think. Maybe he had the right idea. Peeta looks unsettled about Haymitch.

"Think he'll be okay?" he asks the quiet car. Johanna laughs humorlessly.

Our next stop is even closer to the park than the salon…or maybe it just feels closer because I'm dreading this portion of the day. All three of us are. I feel angry again, unsettled. Peeta has my hand on his lap and is cupping it in both of his.

The building is plain, stark. Barren even, squatting unceremoniously among all the colors and flourishes. It _looks_ like a medical building. The windows are small and spaced far apart. An attendant opens our door once the car rolls to a halt and I reach back for Johanna's hand to pull her out, too. We stand in the happy spring sunshine for one more minute, and then a set of steel doors swings open all on their own for us, and a dark, cool expanse of lobby opens up to us. Potted plants line the grey walls and hard chairs in a futile attempt to make the place seem more homey. The attendant gestures towards the elevator.

"Third floor, please," he says. "Miss Everdeen, you'll be in room 304. Mr. Mellark, 305. Miss Mason…"

"Oh, do call me Johanna, please," snarks Johanna.

"Room 314, if you don't mind," he says.

"I mind," says Johanna.

Nevertheless, we're herded into rooms. Peeta looks worriedly to both of us. Johanna pulls up a hood from inside her jacket and slouches inside. I try to look calm and lean up on my toes to kiss him before we separate. I try to carry the feel of his lips on mine into the room, as my feet feel heavy with dread carrying me over the threshold.

It could be worse. That's the best I can say. I recognize Dr. Aurelius when I enter, so at least it isn't starting over from the beginning. He knows how I operate and what happened to get me to this point, which saves me some talking. I take the old tack I took with Snow and tell the truth, hoping it will shorten the meeting. Yes, things have gotten better. Yes, I'm still having nightmares. Yes, Peeta is helping me deal with it. Yes, I'm working and hunting and having Johanna over to visit. No, I'm not taking my medications. Because I don't like the side effects. Because I forget to take them. Because I don't think they'll help anyways. Because I'm stubborn. Because I've taken more medications in the past three years than I think I should take in a lifetime. Yes, I resent the hell out of having to come back here. He doesn't ask about that. I offer it up anyways.

"If I send you home with medication to help with the nightmares, will you take it?" he asks.

"Probably not," I respond.

"If I call to check in, will you answer the phone?"

"Probably not," I repeat. He looks exasperated.

"I'm fine," I say neutrally. This is only situationally true. I am not fine today. But I am not home today, either. "Being here isn't helping much, but I'm fine at home."

"You've done remarkably well," he says, in a softer voice. "I'm glad to hear about the progress you've made in your relationships and that you've managed to find things to keep you occupied. Have you spoken with your mother?"

This stings. "Not recently," I tell him. I don't really want to get into this. "I'm trying to deal with things one at a time." He nods.

"Look, Katniss," he says after awhile. It feels interminable, this reviewing of my life, detail by detail, treatment options being bandied back and forth. I tell him that physical activity helps, because it does. Peeta, Johanna and even Haymitch do, too. I'm coping. Most days. "I'm aware I can't force you to do anything, especially not from this distance."

"Glad you noticed," I say dryly. My foot is tapping restlessly. Dr. Aurelius is better than some strange new doctor, but doctors are doctors, and I'm definitely jaded about them.

He ignores me. "I'm going to send you home with some medication that will help the anxiety and the nightmares. I want you to _think_ about taking it as needed. I'm going to be calling the first of each month in the evening. If you don't respond to my calls, I'm going to have no choice but to come out to you or have you come here. In the interest of time, stress and expense, I urge you not to let it get to that. We'll continue checking in until such time as I feel you don't need it anymore."

"How negotiable is this?" I ask.

He smiles. "Not."

"Well, am I done then? I want to see if the others are okay." I know he'll like the way this sounds, me and all my human connections, but it's also true. He unlocks a tall cabinet by his desk, rummages through it briefly, and produces two small bottles, which he hands me. I tuck them in my pockets without looking at them. I did what Paylor asked of me. She freely admitted that they couldn't force me to take medications. The phone check-ins might not take too long. Aurelius shakes my hand and then lets me exit, which I do at some speed.

Peeta is out, but Johanna is nowhere to be found. I don't see the others, either, so I'm unsure if they've been taken to another floor or if they haven't yet finished. I join Peeta as he sits on the carpeting against a wall outside the doors. I lie back on the floor with my head in his lap. He plays with my hair and it feels so good. "How'd it go?" I ask.

"It was alright," he replies. "It was one of my old doctors from 13, so it wasn't like I had to go over all the details with someone again."

"Me, too," I said. "They brought Dr. Aurelius."

"He gave me something to help me sleep," Peeta says. "I told him I'd give it a try. I don't like that I'm still waking up and getting…getting physical with you." Peeta's ashamed of this and I can hear the note in his voice. Because of that, he probably will take the medication, I'm guessing.

"Not your fault," I remind him, snuggling my head deeper into the crease at his thigh. I close my eyes. I could sleep here. I wonder idly what time it is, wishing I could calculate what percentage of this day is over. I hear Peeta yawn, too. If Johanna doesn't come out soon, she'll find us both snoring right here in the hallway. We don't talk much about the check-ins, but we don't have to. We both know what's going on with one another, and we have a similar resigned weariness about the interference of Capitol doctors. I silently hope that there comes a day when neither of us will need this anymore. When a new generation of citizens blossoms who doesn't remember the war, doesn't remember the Mockingjay, doesn't need our words of encouragement and speeches and input anymore. I spent my life never thinking I would grow old—so few people did, in 12. Now I'm faced with the hope that maybe, I might. Peeta might.

Thinking about time and change and getting back out of the Capitol, I remember, suddenly. "Peeta!" I start in his lap. "Rue's family is probably here by now!" Peeta smiles to me.

"It was good of Gale, asking them to invite the family for you," he says. It _was_ good of Gale. I think he probably understands just _how_ good, because he knows me. I haven't seen Rue's family since that day on the tour, when all the trouble began. I have no idea how they've fared since the war ended. It's a miracle that all those kids made it out alive. Suddenly I'm nervous. What will I say to them? What will they say to me? Will they resent being dragged from their home and into the Capitol, just to help me get through my day? Suddenly I feel selfish again, like I'm exploiting my social capital to get whatever I want. Before I can ponder this too deeply, the door down the hall opens and Johanna emerges from her meeting. Her face is unreadable.

"Hey," Peeta calls, "How'd it go?"

Johanna closes her eyes like she's gathering herself together and then sighs. "More reminders about my…" she makes air quotes… "_instability." _I remember how Johanna has continuously been on medication ever since she cut her arm up all those months ago. The ugly scars are still visible at the crook of her elbow. I think Johanna has a natural inclination towards the sedatives they give her, anyways, so perhaps that's why she puts up with the rest. I haven't forgotten the days in the hospital when she used to unhook my morphling drip.

Suddenly she laughs. "They're sending me home with a _boxing bag_," she says. I only have a reference point for this because they had these bags in the training gym to practice combat. "They think it'll help me express my anger," Johanna tells us. "Like it'll just disappear overnight."

"I wouldn't mind having one of those," I muse.

She rattles a pocket and I hear the pills. "Oh, and lots of drugs. Punching things and drugs. That's the best they can come up with. But hey, they're good drugs."

"Let's get out of here," I tell them, and Peeta and I stand and stretch. "Where are all the others?" As if on cue, we hear voices drifting up the stairs at my feet. We start down and on the second landing, meet up with Gale, Beetee, and Annie. Annie's drifted away again, humming to herself and staring off into the distance. I never know what to do when she does that. Finnick used to. Gale is guiding her arm down the stairs. He and Beetee look nonplussed, and I feel a flicker of…hostility? Jealousy? Disgust? I'm not sure. Some emotion about the fact that they're accustomed to all of these Capitol interventions and mores now; that it's become just an ordinary part of life for them. Especially Gale. It still feels a bit traitorous, but for the first time I understand how he felt when I got sucked into the styling, the tours, the food, the interviews of the Capitol. How I must have seemed like a product created somewhere else instead of the person he thought he knew. As if he can read my thoughts, he catches my eye. I want to avoid his gaze but I'm still thinking about Rue, too.

"Family should be here soon," says Gale. I nod.

"Where now?" I ask no one in particular in response. Gale checks his watch… just an ordinary watch, handsome but plain, which reassures me a bit. "We're early," he says. "I think we're actually heading back to base now. Most of us will just be preparing for dinner later. Katniss, I think you need to go over your speech with someone, and meet with your stylist again." _Of course I do_.

"Who's going with me to do this speech?" I ask nervously. I know Beetee will be sequestered in a room somewhere behind the scenes, airing it. I overheard Lyme speaking to one of her ministers yesterday saying that it's not required viewing, but it's recommended and it's been highly propagandized. They expect most people are curious enough to watch it anyways. For the first time, I wonder what my mother will think. Like I told Dr. Aurelius, speaking with her has been too much for me to cope with on top of everything else. We used to talk on the phone now and then, but it's been a few months. She and I both go out of our way to keep ourselves busy. We were never close; Prim was the bond that held us together, and without Prim, there's only pain and unsaid things to fill the spaces. I wish it were different, but I'm still trying to learn how to navigate the hole that is Prim. I don't want to reminisce with my mother about her, and our conversations used to peter out quickly after we mentioned the basic details about our lives—her working in District 4 as a healer, tending the many who remain, disfigured from the war and still learning how to breathe, eat, walk, and talk again, me roaming the woods and curling into Peeta each night. I wonder if she'll even watch.

"I'm going," says Peeta. This will be expected. Johanna nods, too.

"I'll be in the Capitol building," says Beetee. "Making sure that you're making it to the rest of Panem."

"I'm meeting my family at base and then Annie and I will head over to watch," Gale exposits. Then he asks abruptly, "Where's Haymitch?"

"Indisposed," says Johanna. I have no idea if Haymitch will sober up enough to be there for my speech, but I kind of hope so.

The desk attendant by the front doors speaks up. "I've called a car for you. It should be here presently." Gale nods a thank you. I wonder if there will be time for a nap before I'm thrown into this next activity. Any bed, even if it's not our bed, beckons at the moment. I check Gale's watch. 15:00. We are early. But somehow I don't think the nap will happen.

Johanna puts her arms around me from behind and rests her chin on my shoulder. Her hands are freezing and I take them in both of mine to warm them. Her cheek presses to mine and I have a moment to be grateful that we're friends now. No one will fill the hole where my sister used to be, but Johanna is the one who will come the closest, I think. Our anger meets in the middle. I remember the time she stripped in the elevator and can feel the smile creep onto my face.

Our car arrives and we pile into it for what feels like the hundredth time that day. Johanna stretches out and puts her head in my lap. She closes her eyes. I remember that she, too, didn't get much sleep last night. We're all running on nothing. At least this is it, really. A speech and a dinner. Tomorrow morning we board the train to return home. The visit hasn't actually been that long, but it feels interminable. _We're more than halfway through, though._

I run my hand through Johanna's hair absently, spiking it up further. I have a feeling Johanna misses the touch. She hasn't had her lovers, as far as I know, since we came back. She doesn't really talk about it much. It occurs to me that maybe I should ask her sometime. Peeta's on my other side and my cheek droops onto his shoulder. The ride back to the house will take awhile, again, and lulled by the silence, I begin to drift. By the time we're back, Beetee and Annie have to wake the rest of us. Gale has an imprint of the seat fabric on one cheek. Johanna's drooled into my lap. I make fun of her the whole walk into the house. Payback.

Lyme is waiting for us at the table. The schedules from this morning still lie in front of her. Her ministers are gone, but Fulvia and Plutarch flank her. I see no sign of Haymitch, but Brandi waves to me from a casual repose, leaning against the back of the couch. The rest of the stylists are nowhere to be seen. I wonder about my preps. Surely they'll be needed for this big speech. The final guest in the room is someone I don't recognize. He sits cross legged in the chair next to Plutarch, hands folded neatly in his lap. He's slender, and his dark blue sweater and denim pants match eyes of cobalt blue that regard me with interest under a sweep of cinnamon-colored hair. A pendant of some kind of stone hangs in the open neck of his sweater. I notice that, like me, his nails are bitten to the quick. He inclines his head towards us as we assemble back around the table wordlessly. All of our faces reflect our exhaustion. The primary job my prep team is going to have tonight, I think, is trying to make me look like I'm not decimated by the emotional labor of this day. I hope this meeting is short.

Mercifully, I get this hope. Lyme reviews the remainder of the day's schedule, which is short, confirms that Peeta and Johanna can travel with me to the site of the speech, which is, she reiterates, not in a location that we'll recognize from previous visits. Gale and Annie can join us there once we're set up and ready to go. She smiles when she tells me that Rue's family has indeed arrived and settled into the house where they'll be hosted for the night, and they've been invited to meet us for the speech and the dinner. I can't help but interrupt here.

"How are they?" I ask.

"Doing well," she responds, "I think the children are looking forward to really meeting you." It's true that our only interaction can't properly be called a meeting. Her face softens. "They look good, Katniss. Don't worry." My worry must read on my face. I nod, still anxious. I think that pill Johanna gave me this morning must be wearing off.

"Katniss, you'll have about half an hour for edits, and 45 minutes for prep. Your team should be arriving here shortly," she continues in a businesslike way. "You've probably noticed we have another guest joining us."

The man with the cinnamon hair stands and reaches across the table to shake my hand. His hand is warm and engulfs mine. When he speaks, his voice is low and musical.

"I'm Tristan," he says. "I've been working…"

"He's been working on your speech for tonight with me, Katniss," Plutarch breaks in rudely, looking puffed up and proud. He's been nodding importantly during this entire presentation as though from beginning to end it's been his baby. Maybe it has been. He seems bursting to talk and I have a feeling someone has been instructing him to tone it down for today. The young man takes it all in stride and waits politely. "Oh, they'll be so excited to see their Mockingjay once again!" Fulvia claps her hands. I spare them a glare and then look back to Tristan. "So, you're going to let me make some adjustments?"

"Nothing too severe, of course!" Fulvia bursts. "You must understand…" Lyme waves a hand at her impatiently and she falls silent, looking grouchy.

"Yes, we'll have some freedom to make edits," says Tristan calmly. "If it makes you feel better, it's not going to be a particularly surprising speech."

"Not very long, either," Lyme adds. "Only about thirty minutes." This is still long as far as I'm concerned, but as the schedule had blocked out ninety, I'm still relieved. I hadn't accounted for travel time and set-up, I guess.

"Is anyone else speaking?" I ask.

"Just you, tonight," says Lyme. "We think the propos will cover the rest." _Just me, again._ I grit my teeth, because that's all I can do.

"If there's no further questions, Katniss and Tristan, you can meet now. The rest of you should be ready to leave by 17:15 on the dot, if you're going. Gale, your family should arrive about then, and by the time you get down there, set-up should be complete." Gale nods and rises. He and Beetee move out of the room and I hear their voices fade away. Fulvia and Plutarch begin talking, and Lyme gathers up her papers. Before she can move away again, I approach her.

"How's Haymitch?" I ask her. She sighs.

"Hopefully he'll sober up by the time you're ready to move out," she says. "I think he's sleeping it off. We did manage to get a shower in there." She says nothing about the missed mental health check-in. I think they might even be at a loss as far as Haymitch goes, with this. Still, I'm glad they're taking care of him as best they can.

"I'll check on him," says Peeta, and he kisses my cheek. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear and think about how we'll get to lie down in a few hours. I don't even have the energy to think about sex today. My only priority is sleep. Johanna is already ascending the stairs.

"Wake me up in an hour," she calls down to no one in particular.

Tristan leads me to a small room off the parlor that turns out to be styled as an office. A large desk sits under a window with two rolling chairs in front of it. A copy of what can only be my speech rests on the desk blotter. I drop into one of the chairs with an audible _flump_.

Tristan smiles. "Tired?" he asks.

"You wouldn't believe it," I tell him.

"Well, we'll make this quick, then," he says, and slides the paper over to me. "Read this and let me know what you think."

I skim the speech. It seems pretty much like what I expected—greetings, niceties, space for commentary about my life—to be determined, I guess, since it's marked by ellipses—and a couple of paragraphs singing the praises of the Capitol's new innovations and improvements. A wrap-up intended to boost morale, I guess—loosely connected commentary about keeping spirits high, looking forward, healing. Nothing very surprising. I must look unimpressed because Tristan laughs.

"I've been told you're not a big fan of prepared speeches," he says.

"I'm not a big fan of speeches in general," I confirm.

"What do you think of this one?" he asks. I shrug noncommittally. I wish I were upstairs with Peeta. That's about all I'm thinking at the moment. It doesn't really matter to me what kind of speech they want me to give.

"Can you get behind it, at least?" Tristan queries, one eyebrow raised at my apathy. I forget sometimes that it takes new people awhile to get used to my personality. I don't feel any great desire to improve upon it now. I glance over the remarks about the Capitol—new civil liberties, rebuilding, democracy. None of them are untrue, really, although there's a glossy, propagandic quality about them that I feel ill-equipped to sell effectively. I wonder how much discussion there was over the possibility of my mutiny on this front. I'm going with it mostly for the sake of simplicity.

"It's fine," I say. I'm doubting my ability to stand up and speak any prepared words, but I don't think it's to my benefit to say this now. It'll probably be viewed as defiance, and I'll probably bring down Plutarch, Fulvia and anyone else they can dredge up on my head. It strikes me that their timing is really quite unfortunate. Haymitch is the one who usually mediates my troublesome media appearances, and he's indisposed. They must know what a loose cannon I am once a microphone is clipped onto me. If they don't, it's really on them, now.

Tristan must be reading my face this entire time because he takes the speech away and flips it over to the blank side. He picks up a pencil and inches his chair around to me.

"Alright," he says. "Let's think about this like an outline. There are certain things you're supposed to touch on. No one can force you to say these actual words, and from the clips I've seen…" _Ahh, they gave you a warning_, I think. "…you don't do so well with constraints." He begins etching neat numbers on one side of the page.

"First," he says, "Introduction."

We go through introduction, personal details—pretty much the same things that we spoke about for the propos—and most substantively, what I should say about the new government. Tristan outlines three areas: new liberties, postwar efforts, and ideological frameworks. We wrap up with "reinforcement." Throughout our time breaking down the topics, he never turns the page back over. He has the right idea—the outline makes me feel less itchy than the stark paragraphs—but I'm still restless, preoccupied, and resentful. I try to stay patient and pretend to be focused, but I'm probably only taking about half of it in. I learned to nod in all the right places when Capitol people are talking to me a long time ago.

I appreciate that they kept Plutarch out of this part, but I have to admit it was probably unwise for them to send in an unknown intermediary to deal with me. Tristan lets me get away with too much, takes my absorbed front for actual commitment. I hope I don't end up getting him in trouble. Once we're done, he pencils in a few perfunctory comments on the correct side of the speech and smiles. "Better let you get to prep, now!" he says. "I'll see you once we're there. I'll hold on to this for you."

I thank him politely. When I exit the room, Brandi is leaning against the doorframe, clearly eavesdropping. It's all I can do not to laugh. The rest of the first floor seems deserted. She greets me in a stage whisper. "Wow, you're really excited for this speech, huh?"

I cover my mouth to muffle my laugh as Tristan exits and he and Brandi exchange waves and greetings. Once he's gone, I turn back to her. "_Totally_," I say.

As soon as I re-enter the living room, Flavius and Octavia descend on me, chattering happily and hugging me. Venia smiles at me but I see her taking in my ragged appearance, the dark circles I'm sure are under my eyes by now. Since they've already bathed and waxed and lotioned and plucked me earlier today they're basically here for hair and makeup. Brandi gives them a couple of quick instructions before disappearing to the front hall again, I'm assuming to retrieve my outfit. My makeup is natural, but darkened to appear on camera—long eyelashes applied, copper eyeliner, neutral lips, flushed cheeks, minimal coverage of my burn scars again. My hair is returned to the crown of braids that my mother's clever fingers once created on the morning of a long-ago reaping, making me hugely recognizable to the audience once more. As I stare at myself in the tall mirror they've set up, I try to see myself the way all the people of Panem will see me tonight. I try to drink myself in, compare this girl to the girl in the arena, the girl in the wedding gowns, the girl in the Mockingjay outfit, the girl who, when expected to execute the President, executed his successor to the shock of everyone. Which version of Katniss am I today? Peeta's happy lover? The scarred but triumphant heroine? A nonentity, now that I'm past my use? I look for so long that I begin to dissociate and I feel far from that reflection, as though I should ask her who she is.

I tear myself away when Brandi enters the room, my outfit draped over her arm. Skinny black pants of a material I can't immediately identify, shot through with some sort of sheen. When I reach out to feel them they're cotton, and stretchy, zipping up the side with a long silver zipper. A silky, sleeveless top that is long, like a tunic. It has a scooped, drapey neck and I'm surprised.

"This top is going to show off all the scars on my arm and neck," I tell her. She nods.

"I know," she says. "Does that bother you?" I think about this. I think about how not too long ago fake blood and strips of cotton were employed to cover up my ugly scars, potions applied to erase them. I think about how I missed the calluses on my fingers built up from years of hunting, once they were removed after the first Games. A part of me, gone. I earned the scars I have now.

"No," I say firmly. She smiles. "Cinna knew that. Cinna knew _you_."

I know, I want to say. But I'm afraid I might tear up so I just nod and raise my arms. Once I'm dressed, she retrieves a long, black, skinny, velvety knit scarf that she winds around and around me, pinning it at one hip so it drapes in long tails down my leg. The ends of it are knit through with tiny black feathers and sequins. We take my pin off my propo outfit, which I'm still wearing, and reaffix it to my shoulder. I slip on low, rough, broken-in black boots of supple leather, folded over at the tops. They're so comfortable I think I might steal them after we get back. I look in the mirror. It doesn't escape me that I look like I'm mourning, dressed in all black. I am no longer on fire, not today. I am tired of fighting. Like everyone else.

Brandi stands behind me as I look, adjusting the scarf subtly over my shoulder. "All done," she says. "Do you approve?"

Octavia sniffs as I nod. "Oh, Katniss, we _did_ miss helping you look so pretty!"

I hear movement above me, and Brandi looks up.

"About time to move out, I think," she says. "Do you want to fetch the others?" I can't wait to escape all this preparation, so she barely gets the words out before I'm heading for the stairs. I push open the door to our room, but Peeta's not there. The mirror is steamed up like he's just showered. I call his name, but then I hear noise from down the hall and it clicks. I push Haymitch's door open next, and there's Peeta, sitting on the edge of the bed in a casual, lightweight suit with a silver shirt, open at the collar. He looks handsome. He's coaxing water into Haymitch, who's looking bleary but sober. Peeta's managed to coax him into a clean shirt and pants, which is about all we need.

Peeta looks up and smiles at me. "You look beautiful," he says.

"Beautiful," mumbles Haymitch, looking totally apathetic. "Remind me why I have to go to this again."

"If the rest of us have to go, you have to go." I turn around. Johanna is camped out against the doorframe I've just vacated, wearing exactly the same clothing she was earlier and yawning.

"You didn't change?" I ask incredulously.

"Why should I? I'm not the one going on television," she smirks. "I don't have anyone to impress. I took a nap."

"Everyone gets a nap but me," I grumble. "And now we have to leave. My stylist sent me to come get you." The door of Gale's room is open at the end of the hall and I hear him in animated conversation with Annie, so I suppose he's been up too, but they aren't going with us.

"No more drinking," says Peeta, and tugs on Haymitch's sleeve. "Just watch and have something to eat and don't make a scene so we can wrap this up and go home."

"Seconded," I say fervently.

"I know what I'm doing," growls Haymitch, his eyes glinting at me. The tone is actually reassuring, since he sounds much more himself when he's getting an attitude with me.

"All evidence to the contrary," I retort.

Peeta links my arm and Johanna and Haymitch come behind, Haymitch's toes dragging against the floor. He's mumbling under his breath about a headache, but I ignore it. The end of the day is so near I can almost taste it.

When we arrive I see that my speaking platform is set up with a podium and microphone in front of a towering pointed monument lit by floodlights in the fading day. There are additional lights trained on the podium itself, which sits in the middle of a vast flat lawn and is draped with the flags we spotted in the War Room—the flag of Panem, but the other one as well, with the white stars and red stripes. Plutarch is checking the cameras trained on the stage. When our car pulls up and the four of us step out, Pollux turns away from the one in the middle to wave at me, and I wave back. Tristan speaks briefly with Lyme, who is nodding, and shows her the sheet of paper we marked up in the study. She waves him up the stairs so he can place it on the podium. I'm standing with the others taking in the whole staging, which seems simultaneously enormous, crowded, and claustrophobic, when I hear the patter of feet racing over cobblestones. My eyes dart around and as I turn to my right, I catch just a flicker of a dark brown stripe closing the final feet towards me before a warm, soft object hits me around waist-level, and almost at that exact moment, the applause begins.

I look down with wonder, and as I kneel to put my arms around her, the applause increases, and my tears begin to fall. There are differences—she's not as tall as Rue, and her hair is braided tightly against her head, but she has Rue's big eyes and slight build, and I can't look at her without seeing her older sister reflected back at me. My mind blocks out the whistles and cheers of the assembled group as I cup her face in my hands. She must be the oldest—she looks about ten. Tears are running down her face and I wipe them away with my thumbs, but more keep falling. I embrace her again and hold her to me. Her heart is beating wildly. I recognize her immediately as the child who gave me the reproachful look in District 11 during the Victory Tour, when Peeta was the only one speaking. She was the reason I spoke.

She's smiling through her tears, but I'm still trying to speak through the heaviness in my throat when she speaks.

"I'm Nayari," she says. "Don't cry."

"_You're_ crying," I get out, but now I'm smiling too.

She giggles. "I'll stop if you stop!"

"Deal. I'm so glad you could come," I tell her.

"Come meet my mama!" she says excitedly, and tugs at my hand. When I stand, I see the rest of them waiting for me, the three littlest ones holding hands. The tallest of the remaining siblings is probably about eight, her soft, full hair pulled back into pigtails. Her father rests one hand on her shoulder. His lip is trembling, and the woman beside him—Rue's mother—is crying. Nayari holds my hand as I approach, and it sounds absurd after everything, but it's her small hand in mine that attaches me to the Earth, keeps me in myself as I approach Rue's family in a dream-state after so long. Everyone else must be watching, because it's utterly silent behind us. I move forward tentatively, still unsure. I was the Victor that came out while this woman's daughter died. I will never be able to tell her how sorry I am. My hand stretches out as the tiny girl tugs me insistently. The kids watch me with big eyes, uncertain. There's a moment where I'm not sure about my reception, and I begin to be afraid, and then her arms, like iron, encircle me. I lose all my breath in that hug. Nayari's arms wrap around both our knees, and the spontaneous applause begins again. The woman whispers thank yous, over and over, in my ear. I whisper sorries, again and again, in hers.

When things have settled down a bit, after my embraces with Rue's parents, I'm introduced to the younger ones. The one who looks about eight, not as nervous as the little ones but not as gregarious as Nayari, introduces herself shyly as Aylen. She, too, hugs me, and once they've witnessed all this hugging, the rest of them must decide I'm okay, because they crowd around me. The youngest one, maybe three, is a boy, his chubby legs probably only recently introduced to running with confidence. His name is Zuri. His is the only male face in the crowd besides his father's, as the other two little ones, who exclaim all over the sparkles in my scarf, stroking its velvet texture over and over and sticking their fingers through the holes, are also girls. The littlest one, who might be four or so, introduces herself as Nnenna and takes a deep bow to me that makes both Nayari, who never leaves my side, and I laugh. Peeta's come over and introduced himself to Rue's parents as well, and there are more emotional embraces, as I meet the last of the kids, about six and the one most entranced by my outfit. She's so quiet that I have to ask her to say her name twice before I catch it. "Imani," she whispers. "Your name is so beautiful," I tell her. She quietly strokes my scarf some more, plucking at the feathers on the ends.

"Come here, I'll tell you a secret," I say to her. She inches closer. I put one hand up to cup her ear. "When I'm done giving my speech, you can have it," I whisper. Her eyes light up.

"Really?" she asks, delighted. I smile to her. I can't help smiling over and over, looking at them. I feel like the part of my heart ripped free when Rue died is poured back into me again, meeting her family. "Really," I tell her.

I look up when Lyme touches my arm gently at the elbow. "We're ready. Ready?" she asks. I'm not actually ready; I want to stay here and talk to the kids more, and I'm pretty sure I'll _never_ be ready to give this speech. I look back to the kids, torn.

"You'll have plenty of time with them afterwards," Lyme reassures me. "I promise."

The promise is what carries me up the stairs to the podium after I squeeze Nayari's hand. "I'll see you again in a couple of minutes, okay?" I tell them. They nod eagerly. I see Gale's family out of the corner of my eye and have the time to shoot the kids another smile and a wave, which they happily return. Hazelle blows me a kiss as the families converge, all eight kids sitting together.

I climb the stairs, steeling myself for tonight's final act.

I look down at the white sheet in front of me, up at all the expectant faces—the lineup of tiny, bright-eyed kids, Gale's siblings mixed easily in with Rue's on the sidelines, Zuri perched on Rory's lap, Posy sitting with Nayari like they're new best friends. Gale, standing with Annie beside Rue's parents. Even Haymitch looks like perhaps he's not totally appalled at having been dragged out of bed. And front and center, Peeta, blond curls falling over one eye, arm draped companionably around Johanna's waist. It's Johanna who winks at me as I carefully pick up the sheet, fold it firmly in half and then in quarters, and place it aside. I can almost hear the team of government officials gathered on the opposite side of the stage—Paylor is among them—hold their breath as I look up again.

"My name is Katniss Everdeen," I say, "And I really didn't want to be here."


	23. Truce

The crowd is holding their breath as I stare down the red winking eye on the center camera, the one wielded by Pollux. Once again, all of Panem is counting on _me_ to lead them. They still haven't learned after all this time.

"My name is Katniss Everdeen," I say, "And I really didn't want to be here." I'm silent for a moment, gathering my thoughts before I continue.

"Like all of you, the place I want to be most is home. For me, home is District 12, where Peeta and I and our cat, Buttercup, live in one comfortable house together. Each day, we get up and join the people of our district in helping to rebuild all that was lost. Each day is a little easier than the day before...but we never expect it to be easy. We have hope, watching the members of our community continue to come together to support each other. We have hope, now that the children around us can live with full bellies and warm beds. We have hope because we are no longer living in constant terror and exhaustion." I take a breath and then exhale slowly. I can see that the crowd, too, has started breathing again. Apparently, I am not such a lost cause. But I have to search for the words, and they come to me slowly.

"I have hope that I will not have to be mentor to more children sent by a cruel government into the Hunger Games," I say, my first allusion to our decision in the War Room. "I have hope because the people I love are free to travel and spend time with Peeta and I as we break bread together." I find Johanna's eyes in the crowd and despite herself, I see her tighten her lips as her eyes shine with tears. I find Haymitch next. "I have hope because we all keep fighting through the ache of losing others we love to the Games and the war, through the nightmares produced by both, through the effort of getting up each day and continuing on, because we know that all this fight cannot have been for nothing. I believe in my heart…I have to believe…that we have not come all this way in vain." Haymitch looks away, as though it's too painful to meet my eyes.

I look down at my feet and swallow hard, with some effort. When I look up again, it's Rue's mother's eyes I find.

"I miss my sister, Prim," I say. "I miss my friend, Finnick,"—I glance Annie's way and she wraps her arms around herself in a tight hug—"and the many other friends and allies that were lost to me. With effort, I will the tears that come at these words to recede. "I know that you, too, must have people you miss, homes you want to return to, as I do. Yet we are lucky, because we did survive." I feel my voice getting stronger. "Against all the odds, we did survive, and we did rise up together to create a country that is more just, with more opportunities for the ones we love to grow and succeed." This time, it's the kids—Rory, Vic and Posy, Nayari and her siblings—that earn my gaze. I see different cameras panning around to catch the objects of my words, as I speak them. "Some of the people we love fought with us and did survive, although the odds were not in their favor." Gale. He's smiling right into my eyes. When I shift my gaze, finally, to Peeta, he's openly weeping. I know they will have caught this on camera, too. Nor is he the only one I see in the crowd who is doing so.

"Our road is far from traveled," I continue. "We have no way to know where this new path will lead. Perhaps, like me, many of you are afraid to trust this new government…to trust _any_ government…after all the cruelty and neglect you have suffered in the past. I am here to reassure you that this is okay. We will need our new government to earn its worth." I spare a glance at Paylor and her eyes, far from teary, are locked on me without a blink, waiting to see what will happen next.

"When you and I show this wariness, we are like a dog that has been kicked too many times and shies away from human touch," I say. "We have no reason to believe. But we had no reason to believe the revolution would succeed—it was faith that carried us. It was faith that carried me, even when I didn't see it. Faith that the children that will be born into this new world will not grow up afraid, but will be citizens that are able to speak their minds, cry their voices out loud without worrying about being stifled. Faith that the accused will face a fair trial and be punished in a reasonable way if they commit a crime. Faith that we will have the resources that my mother did not, to cure the ill, feed the hungry, and earn enough money to build good lives for ourselves and our families."

My voice is growing stronger every minute, now. "We should never forget those who fought and died in the name of earning our freedom, but we will be equally unlikely to forget our own scars. A tree with a nail in it will learn to grow around the nail if it is not removed. We will learn to grow around the injuries that we've sustained, and be the stronger for it. The tally of what I have lost rings in my head each day. But it is equally true that, were it not for all that has happened I, like you, would not know how capable I really am. I would not have met some of the people who have meant the most to me. I would not have fallen in love with a man who is so kind, generous and brave." I'm smiling now, because Peeta's eyebrows have risen up so high they've disappeared into his hair, and the others around him have turned to him with smiles. I'm sure no one expected me to speak those words to all of Panem.

"Because I have seen what we have accomplished together, I have to ask you to rise up one more time," I say. "Not to fight an enemy that attacks from without, but to battle the sorrow that might eat you from within. I must ask you not to give up in the face of your loss, not to turn away from others who still need help, not to surrender after we've all come so far. I am there with you. We are there with you. I am no longer the Mockingjay"—I find myself touching my pin without thinking—"because now I get to be something better. I get to be Katniss, who hunts freely in the woods by my home and can say aloud to you that I do it. I get to be who I truly am. I didn't want to be here not because I don't think it's important to encourage you all to begin again as newer, stronger versions of yourselves, but because I have a responsibility to my home and the family who lives there with me." I hold the gazes of the three who mean the most to me now—Haymitch, Johanna and Peeta. Unexpectedly, like those long-ago Victors at the Quell, they have joined hands, and I know the camera has cut away to them. "I believe that all of us together will rebuild District 12, and even if it's not the same, it will still be my home, and every minute I am away is a minute that I miss it." I know I must look wistful, because I feel the knot in my belly just thinking about our quilt, which is the item I most easily associate with home.

"I mourn your losses with you, and celebrate your gains. I share your uncertainty for the future and your conflicted feelings over the past. I get up every day, like you, and begin again. We are beginning again. We breathe as one."

I take one last breath and blow it out, slowly. I brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "I wish you all the luck and strength you need to create a new life together as a part of a family, a district, and a country. I thank you for your sacrifices and encourage you to work together and to love one another. I am only here today because of those who helped sustain me when all was dark." _Peeta_, I think. I gesture him forward, and though he looks surprised, he mounts the stage and takes his place beside me, for the cameras, and I lean up into his smile. His face shows no signs of tears now. The kiss we share on this stage now, after all this time and after so many kisses produced only for adoring crowds, is unquestionably real.

"Thank you," I whisper into the microphone, and it's so silent you could hear a pin drop. Then it's Imani, jogging up the stairs on her chubby legs before her mother, with a hiss and a grab and a dismayed look on her face, can pull her little daughter back. As I bend down and lift her into my arms, the applause begins again, and the cynical part of me has just enough time to think _boy, they'll all love this_ before I carefully unravel the feathered scarf from my own neck and drape it around the little girl's, to her peals of excited laughter.

Cressida, of all people, is the first one to reach me when I descend the stairs, baby still in arm. "Oh, you did just _wonderful_!" she exclaims, reaching out to pat my cheek. "What a lovely speech the President helped you write!" Not quite knowing whether I should give myself away on this point, I just smile and thank her. As I make my way through the crowd to return Rue's sister to her mother, various other people pat my shoulder and congratulate me. I try to be gracious, but I can't wait until the people I care about most get to climb into cars and head off with me to the finale of our day. Rue's family hugs me again, her mother whispering, "You sounded perfect," in my ear. I thank them and return the little girl, draped comically in yards of black velvet scarf, to her arms. Nayari is tugging on my pants excitedly, jabbering away about the speech and the dinner and the scarf and Peeta, and I'm only catching about one in every three words. I'm getting a little overwhelmed by the time Haymitch and Johanna reach me, Peeta in tow.

"Nice job, sweetheart," Haymitch says. "I take it from the look on the President's face that that wasn't exactly the speech they'd expected."

"Not exactly," I tell him. He guffaws.

"Well, that's a big surprise," he says. Johanna punches my shoulder lightly. "You did alright, girl on fire," she says. Peeta takes me into his arms and that's what I really wanted all along. All the commotion fades out as I listen to his heartbeat. In the hug he says everything he can't say in the chaos. "How do you feel?" he whispers into my ear.

"Spent," I murmur back. This is true. I've given every ounce of emotional energy that I have to these people, on this day. I want to burrow into the darkness in this space in his arms by his chest and curl up into a ball, blocking it all out for awhile. But I know we're not yet finished. I have one more act. So I pull away, despite myself, and turn to face the President, who's finally reached me.

"That wasn't the speech we'd planned on you giving," she says, her face unreadable.

"I know," I say, staring directly into her eyes.

"You did excellently," she tells me. And then she smiles. And I smile. "Haymitch could have told you I do better on my own…if he hadn't been so sauced."

"Well, now it's time to layer some food on top, Haymitch," she tells him, still with a half-smile on her face. "There's a banquet hall attached to the Capitol building, and we'll be heading over there now to celebrate the end of your trip here. Tomorrow morning we'll have a train ready to bring you home."

_Home_. The word resonates all the way down to my toes and in my bones.

A fleet of cars is lined up as the tech crew begins to dissemble the stage, those who were there only to watch slowly file past me, wish me congratulations, wring my hands until they hurt, and then move on. The rest of us gather together and move slowly towards the cars, chatting amongst ourselves. There aren't too many of us—maybe thirty in all, counting our families and the main government officials who will be attending, plus stylists, my prep team, Cressida and Pollux, the Victors…Gale. I notice him watching me as I chat with the little kids, cling to Peeta's arm, tease Johanna about the tears I saw welling up in her eyes as I spoke. I feel a pang of guilt at recognizing the others as my family but not him. He was, once. But now we see each and speak together so infrequently, I can't really count him in that way anymore. I should speak to him at some point. I try to push it away from my mind for now. One thing at a time. Our little squad that's been together throughout the day gets a car to ourselves again. Annie is humming quietly to herself, but she looks pleased. Gale won't make eye contact with me. I'm snuggled up with Peeta and Johanna's watching the streets flash by, her eyelids looking heavy, finally. Haymitch has checked the sideboard for more alcohol, but perhaps they've been warned in advanced, because none is forthcoming. I'm assuming Beetee will join us there. The government officials travel behind us in a second limo, with the families following, then our stylists and my prep team. As we pull away, I lose sight of the enormous stage and the dissipating crowds. I think about food—lamb stew, soft rolls, that pumpkin soup with the seeds on top, pots of chocolate—and my stomach rumbles. Finally, I'm at a place where I can eat something. I guess we'll be going in the clothes we're already wearing, which is another thing I'm glad for—I've had enough costume changes today to last the rest of the year. I spare an amused glance at Johanna, who is more rumpled than ever, and Haymitch, who didn't bother to spend time straightening up, either. I shiver a little with the warm velvet scarf gone, so Peeta keeps his arms securely around me.

We're ushered back into the Capitol building, the whole long line of us, but this time we're turned towards a hallway that curves to the right past the rooms we occupied yesterday. The hallway is lined with enormous windows that let all the new starlight pour in. I keep finding myself back amongst the kids, listening to stories and taking up the littlest ones in my arms, answering Nayari's endless questions. Gale, too, seems to take to them particularly, and I remember that he did spend his life being an older brother, after all. Posy plays a hand-clapping game with Nayari and coos over the baby. Rue's parents are smiling, talking to Peeta about their new life. I catch tidbits now and then. I'll never stop wishing Rue was here with all of us, but I'm grateful for this opportunity after so long.

The dining hall is filled to all four corners with food, an enormous table and chairs stretching down the middle. Everything we can imagine is spread out before us—haunches of beef swimming in its own juices, huge tureens of my lamb stew, trays of those little birds with orange sauce, bowls of greens mixed with olives and nuts and beans, pyramids of fruit, thick chunks of vanilla cake with vivid pink frosting. Peeta and I take seats at one end of the table with Johanna, but quickly find ourselves in motion, moving around the room as we chat with all those who know us and who we so rarely see. Annie shows us photos of Nerites that she's drawn out from a small bag she carries around. The baby is already gorgeous, with his parents' sea-green eyes and Annie's flowing waves of dark hair. In almost every photo, he smiles. I wonder if he'll have Finnick's charm and humor and bravery. Annie's face lights up every time she says his name. I introduce Peeta to Brandi, and they hit it off immediately, making jokes about clumsiness as I tell the story of how I met my new stylist. Peeta shows off his artificial leg to her. "See, even you have a leg up on me," he deadpans. I find myself caught up in Hazelle's arms at one point in a long hug, as she tugs me into a quiet corner to check in on my mental state after these long few days. She's one of the few in the room aside from those that have accompanied me with whom I can truly be myself. She can read the tiredness in my eyes. She smoothes my hair back from my face, kisses my cheek.

"How's Gale?" I finally allow myself to ask her this question after our moment on the stairs, which already seems so long ago. I see her eyes shifting back and forth over my face, as though searching for signs of what I can and can't bear to hear. I wonder what she sees reflected there.

She sighs. "He misses you, of course. We miss home. It's better for the kids here, of course. He has such a good job; they value his skills and treat us well. But it's so different from life before. We wanted a new life but I don't think this was the life he saw. And he misses his hunting, and the woods." I can't imagine a life without the woods. I can't imagine having come to live in this city of stone and steel and glass. I still recoil at the sight of it. Sometimes I'm contemptuous of Gale in my head for assimilating so easily, even if this Capitol is not the Capitol he once railed against in the forest when he thought no one could listen. I'm more inclined to take Haymitch's view that all Capitols are one and the same, when it comes down to it.

"He said he's happy, some of the time," I say.

She nods. "I think he is. I think he could be happy here in time. But you were his one true love, Katniss." She lays a hand on my cheek and I press into that gentle touch, close my eyes. The words sting in a way that's at odds with that touch, but of course, this is something I knew, even if I didn't ever want to hear it.

"Come visit some time," I implore her. She smiles. "Maybe once things are running a little more smoothly. The kids are still adjusting. I want to give them time before we go back, when there's so many…memories." She's not wrong about that.

I circle for awhile, my energy buoyed a little by the cheer in the room, which is filled with a lot of people I have some sort of affection for. My prep team burbles all over my new stylist, over the kids, over the Capitol government officials, who look annoyed. I stuff myself with food and then continue to eat until my stomach is distended and I can barely move. Everything is delicious. But despite the pleasure I get in my stolen moments with Hazelle, who I love dearly, talking to Rue's family, playing with the little ones, catching up with Cressida and Pollux about their adventures filming around the districts, conversing with Brandi about her clothes and dreams as a stylist, and just sitting companionably with my friends and family, the room begins to get stifling. I find myself looking at the minutes of the clock as they tick by slowly. There are still too many of them between now and home. I begin to fidget in my seat, struggling to hold my attention to anything that's happening at the moment. Peeta notices.

"Hey, want to take a walk?" he asks. I'm grateful for the suggestion.

"Yes, let's," I tell him, and we rise slowly, seeking an open moment where everyone else seems to be engaged—Johanna notices our sidling towards the door and makes sure she has Haymitch's attention after shooting us a wink—and then slipping silently into the hall. The steps up to the higher floors loom before us, carpeted in a fine, plush material. The floors above are dark. We tiptoe up these stairs, unsure of what we'll find at the top but welcoming the silence, the space. The hallway stretches in both directions, punctuated by doors. We try a few, but they're locked. Finally, I just sink to the floor on the plush carpet, thinking I could sleep here anyways if I spent even a moment with my eyes closed. Peeta sits facing me, blue eyes shining forth from shadows.

"Hey," he says quietly, "So I had this thought that when we get home, we should get some chickens. Maybe a couple of goats. Or a dog." This is so unexpected a thing to say in this context that I almost laugh.

"Okay," I say agreeably. I have no problem with that, and I like dogs.

"I'll find us some, somewhere," he says. "After all, I am…what was it? Generous and kind?" I hear the teasing note in his voice.

"Brave, too," I agree. "Speaking of that, how are you holding up?"

He nods. "We're almost done now. I can keep it together until tomorrow. I think I just need one thing."

"What's that?" I ask, and then he's leaned forward, and he's kissing me, kissing me like he did on that long-ago night on the beach in the arena, plying my lips with his tongue, burying his hands in my hair, crushing my body against his. I sigh softly into his open mouth because it's so satisfying. He kisses me hungrily, kisses that have been stored up throughout the day, freeing kisses out of the sight of anyone who will question us, cheer for us, order us around. All I hear in the silence of the hall are the tiny sounds Peeta and I make as we breathe into one another's mouths. I hold him closer, until his heartbeat lines up with my own, drumming in my chest. Of course, the result of all this is that I can actually feel my knees get weak, the gush that makes me squirm, as my underwear are now distinctly uncomfortable. I can feel Peeta get aroused almost immediately. Part of me wants to beg him to pick me up, put my back against the wall, take me here and now. But it will be better to wait until we don't have to worry about some disembodied voice echoing around the place as they call us back to dinner. I haven't wanted sex today, have had too much else on my mind, but it's impossible not to want it, when he kisses me like this.

When he finally withdraws, I'm flushed and hot and my lips are full and throbbing, like the place between my thighs. Peeta groans comically. "Now, that just made me want the rest of you," he says.

"Why did you do it then?" I try to straighten my top.

"Because I had to," he whispers, and then I'm drawn back in, trailing hot little kisses up his neck to his ear, nibbling at it gently as his breath pants in the quiet, his head thrown back as he melts at my touch.

I could stay this way with him forever, but I have no concept of how much time we're taking, and surely we'll be missed before too long, being the guests of honor and all. When I pull back, he groans for real.

"_Really?_" he asks me, and I laugh. "Come on, now, let's just wrap this up so we can take it to a better place afterwards." This must be motivating, because he takes my hand when I stand and I pull him up with me.

"Katniss…" he pauses. "Did you really mean all those things you said back there? In the speech?" I can tell he's been wanting to ask me this.

"About you being brave?" I ask.

"No," he says. "About the people and the government and all that." I nod in the dark, because I did mean it. It poured out of my mouth like water, not so much certainty, but hope and even a little bit of faith. Hurt, too. I could not speak clinically, in the end. I could only speak of what I knew, and hope that my words would translate to others who may have known some of the same fears and pains as us, as Johanna, as Haymitch, as Rue's family. "Yes," I say. "I meant every word."

He squeezes my hand in the dark as we begin to walk back. "I'm proud of you," he says. I swallow hard. "I'm proud of you, too," I tell him.

I hear the smile in his voice. "Real or not real?"

I laugh in response. "Real."

When we re-enter the dining room, the Capitol attendants have cleared away many of the plates. The mood in the room is warm, relaxed and full. Johanna is stowed away in a dim corner, sharing a couch with a Capitol attendant—she's the one I recognize from earlier in our trip, the one with the curtain of golden hair who blessedly interrupted our long day in the War Room with a message for the President. Her head is bent low, that gorgeous hair falling over her cheek, and she's laughing at something Johanna is whispering to her. Johanna's fingers rest lightly on the soft inside of her arm. I wonder what magic words Johanna, like Finnick, knows how to whisper. I'm grinning, watching them. Peeta stops when he sees me stop, and when I feel the rumble of a laugh that moves up from his belly I know he's seen her, too. As we watch, she takes the girl by the wrist and surreptitiously tugs her out the door we just came in. They disappear into the shadows. Somehow I doubt Johanna will care as much as we have about discretion.

Ironically, this is when the ring of silverware on crystal rises in the room, chasing the chatter into silence. Hastily, I try to smooth some of the wrinkles out of my shirt, and Peeta does the same. We try not to look too much like we just came back from being pressed against a wall together. Haymitch is holding a goblet of something to his lips and looking jolly, which means he's drunk, as he talks to Hazelle. Gale is standing with his hands clasped behind his back, stick-straight, waiting. For the first time I notice how handsome he looks tonight, clad in black silk with shiny patent shoes peeking out from beneath his trousers. His hands, once rough from hunting, are smoother now, that subtle glint of silver watch peeking out. All look expectantly to Paylor, standing at the head of the room with her own goblet in hand. I think I inch towards Peeta.

"I wanted to say just a few words of thanks," the President's voice rises above the silence. "To Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark, Haymitch Abernathy, and Johanna Mason for humoring us as our guests over the past few days." Haymitch's proximity to us makes Johanna's absence all the more obvious. Everyone looks around to each of us, and I see the President's eyes skim the crowd for Johanna. Her brow furrows as Johanna is nowhere in sight, and I find myself fighting a laugh. _Typical. Has to go out with a bang. _

"We know it cannot have come easily to them," Paylor continues. "We did not want to be the ones to disrupt their hard-fought peace and quiet in the rebuilding of their homes and lives back in District 12. It was with much discussion and consideration that we reached out to them in need, as ambassadors of a country that has come to see them as so crucial to our success, recovery, and sense of self. Only because of the peoples' crying out for them were they requested. And, though they owed us nothing, they rose to the occasion once again. We apologize for the troubles we have caused you and the interruptions to your lives. We say thanks for the aid you have given us this week in rebuilding our government, making it better and stronger and giving the people hope and faith in their own future. These tasks are essential, and indeed, they can be performed by no one in whom we have more confidence."

I think she's probably stretching it a bit now, especially when it comes to Johanna, although maybe it's just my speech that's foremost in her mind at the moment. _Or maybe she's just putting a great gloss on it for the next time they need us here_. That's a distinct possibility, but as we're not even out of the Capitol yet, I think I'll save that possibility for another time.

"I'd like to propose a toast," says the President. "To happiness, health, freedom, justice, and a new life for all who fought so hard to get us here." She raises her glass as a different attendant hands Peeta and I goblets of wine. We raise them together, and they clink.

For me, that's where the night begins to end. The President finds me to thank me once more, as does Commander Lyme, more warmly. I thank her for her kindness, as well. Plutarch and Fulvia find me to gush over my unanticipated speech. Luckily Peeta rescues me pretty quickly. When it begins to get late and her little ones are yawning, nodding off in the corner with Posy, who's procured a yo-yo from Rory and has been teaching them tricks, Rue's mother gives me a last tight hug, and hands me a slip of paper with the family's address in District 11. She assures me that they've been receiving excellent care, plenty of food for the children, and that working hours have been drastically decreased as workers from other districts are brought in to help with spring planting. "It's all because of you," she tells me, but I can't hear this, and I shake my head and look away. She seems to expect this, because she doesn't push it. She kisses my forehead.

"Do write to us, and maybe come see us one day," says her father. I nod. "I'd like that," I say. Nayari cries again when I hug her goodbye, but I show her the slip of paper and promise that I will write to her personally, which excites her, since she's never gotten a letter. I hug a sleepy Ayden and Imani, who thanks me profusely for the velvet scarf that is long enough to wrap around her entire body like a shawl. Nnenna and Zuri are already asleep, so I kiss their cheeks gently as their parents lift them to carry them to the car that awaits. Nayari throws one last kiss over her departing shoulder. I stand and watch after them even once I've heard the car pull away. It's hard for me to breathe. My shoulders sag. Peeta comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me.

"Don't worry, you'll see them again," he says softly in my ear. I nod. I know this is true, but I'm choking back tears again. I know they're partly exhaustion, at this point, but I miss the children already. I miss all children. Deep underneath this absence, of course, lies my little sister, who departed me all too soon. I know Peeta knows this. My fingers stray to my pin. When I turn back to the room, it seems much smaller.

Hazelle and her kids leave soon after, and this is hard too. She rocks me in her arms for a long while before letting me go, and then takes Peeta too. Rory and Vic jump in, and Posy last, and then we're laughing as one big group huddle. Gale stands back, a half-smile on his face, but unsure. When I catch his face in the crowd, I extract one hand and wave him over.

"Come on, Gale!" says Posy, and then, smiling, he wraps his arms around his mother, his siblings, Peeta, and me.

I share farewell hugs with Cressida, Pollux, Brandi, Beetee, Annie and my prep team—who are sobbing once more at the prospect of going without me. By the last handshakes with the Capitol government officials as we all begin to head home for the night, it's past 11 and I feel as dry as sand inside, numb with the introductions and the reunions and the tearful farewells. I know I will likely see everyone again, but I don't know when, where, or how. I hold tightly to Peeta's hand as we walk out onto the cobblestones under a waning moon. Johanna has rejoined us smoothly at some point, looking smug. I raise an eyebrow at her and she wiggles hers up and down. I want to ask her all about it, but it's not the time. "Tomorrow!" she mouths to me, looking relaxed for the first time all weekend. _I bet that's some story_, I think. I owe her one. She's been listening to me talk about Peeta for ages now. Haymitch is just drunk enough to have escaped from himself, but gladly not so drunk that he can't walk back with us, although he's a bit unsteady. He seems to have recovered from his rough morning. Gale inexplicably comes with the four of us, too. I'm nibbling on a brownie I stowed in my coat pocket. Peeta's quietly ribbing Johanna about missing the toast as the others gradually begin to turn off our path, until only the five of us remain. From her rejoinders, I can tell Johanna's had a bit to drink, too. Gale is quiet walking beside me, his dinner jacket unbuttoned, just a hint of beard shadow along his jaw. I watch him out of the side of my eye for a few minutes and when he remains silent, I speak.

"Aren't you tired?" I ask. "You don't have to walk us back, we know our way by now."

"I was thinking about maybe crashing at the boardinghouse again," he says, looking down to me. "I mean, if you don't mind. My apartment is a little bit of a walk from here and it's been a really long day." He looks down to our feet again as though he's considering whether to say something else and then adds, "Plus, it's going to seem weirdly quiet after all that." I sense unspoken things underneath this statement but I don't push. After our escape upstairs, I am dying to consummate my unfinished business with Peeta, but we're going to be getting up early to catch a train, and my eyelids have already begun to droop. Truthfully, it's probably best we wait until we get home. It will be sweeter that way, too. I know that Peeta and I will have no shortage of opportunities in the future to practice our new skills. It's true that regardless of where Gale sleeps, I'm free to act as I want, and I'm certain Peeta wouldn't turn down an offer, but I can't bring myself to subject Gale to the sounds of our lovemaking again. It seems cruel. I can't believe that only a few days ago I was still regarding him as the enemy. It doesn't seem that simple anymore, after interacting with him and his family again these past few days. He's humanized to me in a way he hasn't been in a long time, especially after he pulled hard to get Rue's family out to support me through this long day. I've softened to the possibility that maybe, one day, we could mean something to one another again, even if it's never in the same way. I know this is something he wants. I think maybe one day I could want it, too. It will take time, like all of the rest, but I'm not so opposed, so afraid, anymore. _At least some good things came out of all this mess_.

"I don't mind at all," I tell him. I glance Peeta's way and he pauses his torment of Johanna to give me a questioning look.

"Do you mind if Gale spends the night over?" I ask. I see that flicker of lust behind his eyes that probably no one but me would catch, but I know before I ask that Peeta's far too polite to object, and whatever enmity and tension had been present between he and Gale before this trip began, some combination of events that have happened here has soothed it. Peeta has somehow come to know that Gale represents no threat.

"Of course not," he answers, looking to Gale.

"Thanks," Gale says, and I catch a flicker of what could be gratitude behind his dark eyes, just before it's gone and they're inscrutable again.

The leftovers from the feast have somehow beaten us here; little white cardboard boxes are stacked neatly in the fridge. _Good, we won't have to cook for a week_, I think. Even though I feel like I could be rolled up the stairs, I slide out a flat box of a peanut butter and chocolate tart and begin to pick pieces off the edge of it. Gale wishes us a good night almost the moment we're in the door, and retires to a bedroom downstairs. Johanna joins me at the table and we pick apart the dessert with our fingers for a few minutes. I hear Peeta checking in with Haymitch. After a minute, Peeta takes him by the arm and tugs him towards the stairs, probably to make sure he gets to bed all right, although once he sobers up he'll probably just spend the night pacing the floor anyways.

"So, how was your night?" I ask Johanna innocently, but the grin I'm suppressing on my face I'm sure is coming out in my eyes. I can feel it.

Johanna stretches luxuriously like a cat, lacing her fingers together over her head. "Oh, delicious," she almost purrs. "Just what my doctor ordered." I laugh.

"What did you do with that girl?" I ask curiously.

"What _didn't_ I do with her," says Johanna.

"Okay, what didn't you do with her?" I play along, trying to imagine exactly what it is two girls do together.

"Want a live demonstration?" teases Johanna.

"Oh, I've had plenty." Saying this out loud makes me feel oddly grown-up, as though Johanna and I are on an even playing field in some new way, now that I've been let in on the secret.

"Well, I didn't discover just how easily those red outfits unzip," says Johanna. "I have no idea just how much fun that long hair is to wrap around my hand and pull. I definitely didn't find an empty armchair and straddle her in it. And there's no way that I would have put my fing…"

"Okay, that's enough," says Peeta, sounding amused, as we see his lower half make its way down the stairs.

"I'm just getting started," protests Johanna. "Besides, look how wide Katniss' eyes are!" I feel myself blush as Peeta aims a side-eye at me and then starts laughing.

"Katniss, do you want me to go upstairs so you can hear the rest of the story?" he asks, his eyes twinkling.

"No. Y…no!" I say, flustered. I kind of _do_ want to hear the rest. The sex with Peeta has only really just put a dent in my naivete. But I don't want Peeta to know I want to hear it. Johanna has her cheek propped on the heel of one hand, waiting idly to see if I'll stick around for all the sordid details.

"We…should go to bed," I say lamely. Looking a little disappointed, Johanna rises and claps me on the shoulder. "There's always the train ride!" she chortles before thumping her way up the stairs. Halfway up she strips off her shirt and drops it on the landing, and I shake my head as I watch her bare back head down the hall. _She certainly does know how to pick them_. That girl attendant was gorgeous.

Peeta bends down a little awkwardly on his bad leg and scoops me up from the chair. As an afterthought, I snatch the peanut butter dessert from the table and drop it into my lap.

"Ready to join me in bed, dear?" he asks, kissing my earlobe and making me shiver.

"Oh, yeah," I say immediately. "But hey…no funny stuff right now, ok?" I incline my head towards Gale's door. "I just…" But Peeta shakes his head.

"I get it," he says.

"You do?" I say, surprised at his total lack of surprise or deflation at my request.

"Sure," he says. "I can just imagine, if it were me in there." The other half of the statement is implied and I know that I, too, would have a hard time listening to Gale's nighttime play with some other girl, even as in love as I am. Maybe it just works that way no matter who you are.

By the time Peeta deposits me in my bed, my eyes are half-closed, anyways. He gently takes the pie plate and sets it on the nightstand, and tugs at my pants from the bottoms as I lie down until they slide off. He throws them on the floor by the bed as I slip my thin shirt over my head. I can't help but quiver all over when he gently hooks his fingers into the sides of my underwear and draws them down, too. The newly made-up sheets are crisp and cool on my bare skin, and I squirm around in them happily. Peeta undresses, and lies down beside me in the dark. Slowly, he reaches out and undoes my hair, unraveling it with his fingers until it falls in silky, newly-grown waves over my shoulders. We don't speak, and I'm glad. It's been a day full of words, and I have nothing left to say. I don't need to say anything with Peeta anymore, anyways. I tuck one bare leg between his knees and lean my forehead into his. The light drift of his kiss goodnight on my cheek makes me smile in the dark. I barely have the time to wish for good dreams for both of us tonight before I'm sound asleep, one joyful word following me into the dark.

_Home. Home. Home._


	24. Out of the Capitol

I wake before he does. My eyes are barely open before an overwhelming feeling of relief hits me, and it takes my foggy brain a second to process it. Then I realize that today is the day we get to go home. The most difficult thing I have to do today is board a train. _Thank god_.

Then I realize this isn't actually true. The most difficult thing I have to do isn't to board a train. It's to board a train that will return me to my world, leaving Gale and his family in their new one. Just like yesterday, I'll be saying more goodbyes to people I love. This seems to be the major theme of my life.

I ease out from under Peeta's arm and swing one leg silently over him. After so many years of moving through the woods in every season with light feet, I change soundlessly back into the clothes I wore when we arrived, run my fingers through my hair and braid it back sloppily, and pull on a pair of boots. The sun is up, but the pale light streaming through the window indicates it can't have been up for too long. At least we didn't have nightmares all night. I yawn and lope down the stairs, hoping maybe someone has sent over some eggs or something for us. But I lose track of my thoughts of food when I see the front door cracked open, and just beyond it, Gale's unmistakable shape, sitting on the stoop outside alone in the pale dawn. I know that I move over to the door without making a single sound, but we were hunting partners together for years and I'm not the only one who's light on my feet. Gale greets me without ever turning around.

"Hey, Katniss." My heart aches for him to call me Catnip again, a nickname I used to hate. It feels just now like an item of clothing that you grow out of but adore so much you can't bear to get rid of it. Maybe we're finally too old. Maybe these past few days have done the trick. Gale's voice is raspy, and I wonder if he's been up all night. Peeta and I weren't what kept him up, but we're probably not the only possibilities. I take a seat beside him on the stoop. His grey Seam eyes find mine and they do look tired, but they also see me, in that way that only Gale used to be able to see me, before there was Peeta. I wonder again, as I do sometimes, what would have happened if Prim had never been chosen, or if Peeta had not been my competitor, if he would have lived his life in silence, never working up the nerve to tell me how he felt, watching me fall in love with someone else. The most painful part of it all is that, in retrospect, I cannot see myself having fallen in love with anyone else but Gale. Gale was the only boy I ever noticed at all, and he was the only one who really knew me. I wonder if Gale knows just how possible what he'd wanted would have been, if not for the Games. But _if not for the Games_ is not an addendum you can use lightly. If not for the Games, nothing would be the same at all. It's useless to compare.

"Hi Gale," I greet him. "Get any sleep?" He sighs. Without thinking, I reach out and brush a piece of hair that's fallen in his eyes away. He looks downward. This is not like the Gale that used to hunt with me, so outspoken and firm and direct about everything. This Gale is the Gale that emerged after everything, and he still has trouble looking at me sometimes. I don't blame him. I still have trouble looking at myself sometimes. In the mirror I can see that I'm not the same, and it's not only the burn scars that prove it. I drop my hand back to my lap and we sit in the pale sun in silence for a couple of minutes. When Gale notices that I'm shivering, without words he slips out of his black coat and drapes it over my shoulders. It's warm, and smells like him. I still remember what Gale smells like. I want to close my eyes and bury my face in it, not because I'm in love with him, but because that smell reminds me of so many good times that we did have together once upon a time, in a land far away.

_Not that far, I guess._ But it might as well be.

"You said you wanted to talk to me?" I ask cautiously.

He smiles a little. "I didn't think you'd want to talk to me, honestly."

"I at least have to thank you for what you did with Rue's family," I say. "That really meant a lot to me, to be able…to be able to meet her brother and sisters." My voice catches in the middle of the sentence and I feel the water rise behind my eyes again. I blink it rapidly back.

"Of course," he says. "It's not a problem. Man, they were cute, weren't they? The older one would have followed you all the way back home if you let her, I think." I think of Nayari chattering away to me the entire evening and I smile. "I think you're probably right about that." It's easier to talk about things that are lighter, since so much seems so heavy. But I have to ask.

"How's life here, for you?" He frowns and looks at his hands, clasped over his knees, like he needs to think about this question for awhile before answering. I already asked Hazelle, but I want to hear his answer.

"Unnatural," he says finally. "You know they give the trees all these chemicals and crap just to make them _look prettier_?" I laugh, despite myself. "Why does that not surprise me?" The Capitol has always been unrealistically concerned with appearances. _Just ask my prep team._

"You miss home?"

"I miss what home was like before all this," he says. "But all I saw when I went back there was ashes, and the images in my head of what it looked like the day they…" He shakes his head. "You have a new life there." For the first time his eyes meet mine and I'm grateful that it's not in Gale's nature to be deceptive, not like it is in mine. He's always had a hard time not saying exactly what's on his mind. It's amazing he liked me for so long and never spoke up about it to me. "If you and I had been able to…it just made more sense for my family to be here. There's a lot more for them here than back in 12. It doesn't really make sense for me to think about myself." I translate this in my head. He has nothing to go back to. If I'd been a possibility, he would have gone back for me. But he can take his family with him anywhere he goes, so there was nothing left for him but ashes. In this light, I understand his decision to leave.

"They gave you a good job here," I point out. He nods. "Yeah, it's interesting work. I spent all that time in the woods lecturing you about how we needed a new way of governing ourselves, and now we have one, so I guess it's what I was meant to do, to be in the middle of all of it. It gives me things to think about and I stay busy." This, too, I understand. It's sometimes hard to stay busy in 12, since I don't need the money, don't go to school, and don't have any particular aim in life at the moment. I envy Gale the certainty of having a career, even if I don't agree with the one he's chosen. There are a lot of things we'll still have to step tentatively around, lots of landmines wired to old hurts, ready to explode at any moment.

"How do you live without the woods, though?" This question pops out without me even realizing it was in my brain. But I do legitimately want an answer to this, because this is the part I'll never understand.

"I don't," he says, a little flatly, and his mouth twists bitterly. "I feel suffocated here a lot. I mean, I can travel to other districts anytime I want, to go hunting or whatever, but…" He doesn't have to finish that sentence. I know the answer to it. "I mostly just work a lot. I think eventually I'll move out of here, once the kids are a little older and they can take care of themselves better. I don't want to leave Mom. It took her forever just to figure out where everything was so she could go shopping and stuff. It's not exactly small." I nod.

"Where will you go?" I ask. Posy's only seven, so this still leaves him quite a bit of time to even make this decision. "I don't know," he says. I wrap his coat a little tighter around me. "Maybe to 7. I liked 7 when I traveled out there a few times. Or 4."

"You could bunk with Johanna," I say.

"Yeah, speaking of that!" I see a smile play at the corners of his mouth. "What's up with her? Are you best friends now?"

"Something like that," I agree, and it sounds nice coming out of my mouth. "She's about the only one left who has anything in common with me." _Besides Peeta._ "She was having a hard time being home for awhile, before she got her dog, so she started coming out to visit now and then, and it was good for us to talk to each other about…everything. I don't really know that many women anymore." This is the absolute closest I can get to saying what we both know. If Gale and I are going to talk to each other at all, we have to start out with things that aren't contentious. I know this instinctively.

"I think it's nice," he says. "Although I can't say I ever saw that one coming."

"Yeah, well, remember, we lived together for awhile in 13," I remind him. "She would have been on our squad, except she still couldn't deal with water back then." Thinking about this, I'm glad that Johanna wasn't able to go into the city with us. Our particular squad was rather too adept at dying.

"I wish I had more people here I could talk to, you know, like friends," he says. I'm surprised he admitted this out loud. "But you know you and I were never great at making friends." I smile at him. "I'm still not," I say. "I got lucky."

We sit in silence for a little longer, but it doesn't feel as heavy. Even small talk is something, and I wasn't even sure I would be able to look at Gale for longer than a minute when we first began to plan this trip. I don't want to hate him and live my entire life replaying all the things that happened in my life that hurt me over and over again. If I can't let them go eventually, it will be like they never ended at all, and then what's the point of all this? Except it's not that simple. Back in my head I'm still furious with him, but the anger is at war with so many other emotions—pity, longing, disappointment. I'm not sure how to sort them all out.

"How's 12?" he asks finally.

"Getting there," I say. I tell him about the rebuilding crews and how I work with them sometimes, the progress that's being made recreating our former town, the few people, like Greasy Sae, that still remain and that he was close to. I tell him about the changes with food and travel. I don't talk about living with Peeta, or even about what he's up to. I try to make it as easy for Gale as possible. He listens, his eyes still trained on mine, taking it all in. When he asks if I still hunt in our woods, I nod. The woods are something that I could never give up; something that belonged to me before Gale, when my father was alive. I miss Gale most acutely in the woods, but his departure would never make me give them up. They are my true home. I see the faraway look in Gale's eyes and I know that he's remembering what I remember—the little stone house by the lake, our hollow where we'd meet up to eat and plan, trees we'd climbed to hide from packs of wild dogs. I think we probably could have navigated through our woods without eyes, if we'd had to, by feel and smell alone. I get the impression that me talking too much about that part is causing him pain, and I feel like I should change the subject, but my mind is still tallying all the things that I don't want to talk about. His job. His love life, if he has one. My love life. The war. I settle on something neutral.

"When will those propos air?" I ask curiously. This is actually something I would like to know.

"They'll be editing them together today, but hopefully they'll be ready to go live tomorrow," Gale says. "I think they're planning to launch them at noon, if you want to watch at home. I'm sure they'll show them repeatedly over the course of the day. The citizens are really invested in hearing from you and Peeta." His tone is neutral but the first mention of the name of my lover sounds like a block of wood in his mouth, crushing his tongue. I nod. "I'd be fine if they would just stop caring about where I am and what I'm doing," I say. "I'm still waiting for life to just get back to normal already."

Gale gives me an odd, twisted smile. "Katniss, you know that life will never get back to normal, for us."

Before I can respond, a messenger on a bicycle careens up the street and stops deftly in front of us. We look up and shade our eyes to see another Capitol attendant, this one dressed all in yellow. I still haven't worked out what all the colors mean. On the back of the bike is a set of panniers, and I can smell what's in them as soon as I see them. I smile.

"Breakfast," says the attendant, and he smiles too.

Gale helps me carry in the bags of food in which are stored our breakfast. The house is still quiet; no sound from Haymitch, Johanna or Peeta drifts down the stairs, although it's creeping into actual morning now. Only one member of the household—Mutt—greets us at the door, tail thumping against the floor. I reach down to scratch his head. Our train leaves at noon, Lyme informed us last night. A car will come to take us to the train station. Hazelle and the kids will meet us there to say quick final goodbyes. Most everyone else said their goodbyes to us last night, at the dinner. No mention of our return has been voiced, and I'm just fine with that. I definitely need some time to recover from all this craziness. I glance at the clock; just after 8. We still have a few hours, but it's a peaceful few. Gale helps me open the trays, revealing scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausages, toasted bread, jam, honey, tea, hot chocolate, fresh fruit, and on and on. One thing I will always miss when I leave the Capitol—maybe the only thing—is the food. I know it's probably polite to wait for the others to come downstairs, but I'm ravenous at the smell of the sausage, so Gale and I grab a couple of plates and begin loading them up while the food is still hot, carefully closing the trays when we're done so it will stay warm for the others. We chew in silence for a minute and then I look at Gale.

"Hey Gale?"

"Mmm?" he replies, around a mouthful of eggs. His eyes look distant.

"Why'd you want to talk to me?" He swallows and looks surprised.

"Why wouldn't I want to talk to you?" he asks.

I have no answer for this. "I don't know."

"Why did you talk to _me_ is a better question," he tells me. "But I suspect it's the same reason, either way." I nod. Yes. This is a truth. Talking to one another was inevitable, because there will never be a way to just forget. "Yeah. But I can't just go back to the way things were…before. You said yourself that normal isn't really a baseline for anything anymore. I mean…this is nice, though. But…" I can't seem to fumble any words together to express what I mean. Whatever gift of silver tongue emerged at that speech last night has deserted me.

He nods. "I understand. I just thought it would be better to talk even a little if we could than just…be stiff and cold. It didn't feel right. Plus…it's not the same without you." He says this part a little quietly, and fast, as though he wants to get the words out and be done with it, although I already know this.

"It's not the same without you, either," I say. There's some more silence. I break off a bit of toast and dunk it in my hot chocolate.

"Would you mind if I…wrote to you, now and then?" he asks. "Not as the Capitol's ambassador," he adds hastily, and I smile. "I really didn't want to be that, but they thought it was their best shot to actually get you here, even though I argued with them."

"You can if you like," I say, after thinking it over for a moment. "But…give me some time to write back. I need to get in a good mental place to do it and there's still days when it's hard. Especially after all this, I just need some time with…with the woods and home and all." I have to catch myself in the middle of this sentence, as I almost said, "with Peeta." Gale nods but looks happy for the first time, and I'm glad.

Before we can get any further, I hear the creak of a board on the stairs, and with a thump-thump-thump, Johanna comes charging down. He hair looks like she's been electrocuted; it's sticking up all on its ends. She's wearing a black t-shirt that hangs to her knees and slippers but her legs are bare. She jumps the last few stairs and her dog leaps up and runs over to her to greet her. She mushes his ears around.

"Hi, all," she greets us perfunctorily before charging to the stove and beginning to lift aluminum lids to peek at the breakfast food. "Mmm, food. I'm starving."

"Johanna, how about you put some pants on," says Gale, eying her long bare legs. She laughs at him without turning around. "How about you just don't look, if you don't like it, Gale? Or is the problem that you like it…a little _too _much." She turns, plate loaded with pancakes, and gives him a devilish grin. Gale rolls his eyes. I'm used to this type of thing from her by now, so it doesn't really faze me one way or the other. My prudishness has definitely been whittled away quite a bit after spending so much time in her presence. She plops herself down next to me and begins to shovel sausage bits into her mouth. Suddenly I remember our unfinished conversation.

"Hey Gale," I snicker. Who's that attendant with the long blonde hair? Johanna got to know her really well last night."

"_Really_ well," Johanna agrees amiably.

"You mean Lisa?" Gale laughs. "Well, you probably made her happy, Johanna. Just the other day she was bemoaning the lack of available women around here. She's from the Capitol originally and apparently women and men being with the same gender was relatively common among the Capitol people—I mean, they were pretty open about it—but in the districts it was mostly hush-hush. With the influx of all the new district people, I think whoever swings your way is probably still keeping it to themselves."

"Men?" my mind catches on that part. I never thought about men being together, but I guess it's not so odd, since I got over the thought of Johanna and her women lovers pretty fast. It's true though that I never saw anything like that in my time in 12, although I realize now that it must have been happening out of my eyesight anyways.

"Guess I made her night then," purrs Johanna. "She definitely seemed…satisfied."

"Well, you have good taste," says Gale. "All that hair." I feel a flash of totally unwarranted and unfair jealousy that I can't prevent at these words, but then it fades. I don't know if Gale knew Johanna liked women or not, but the fact that he's so blasé about it means that he must have come to terms with it pretty well since he got here.

"Katniss wouldn't indulge me," says Johanna, a faux-pout on her face, "So I was left with no other choice." I shoot her an exasperated glance, but Gale laughs. "Is that so, Katniss?" he teases me over a forkful of eggs. I throw a raspberry at Johanna but she opens her mouth in time to catch it. "Mad skills," she says triumphantly. "Mad skills _all the way around_, if you know what I mean."

"We know what you mean," says Peeta as he emerges into the kitchen carrying a pair of sweatpants in one hand. "You're about as subtle as a brick. But I'm glad you're getting some of it out of your system finally so you can stop torturing Katniss."

"You like when I torture Katniss, you liar," says Johanna without turning around. I see Peeta's grin but he merely throws the pants in her lap as he passes. "And put some pants on, Johanna."

Peeta gets his food and comes over to sit by us, giving me a swift good morning peck on the cheek. Haymitch is down not too long after, and though he hasn't brushed his hair, he appears at least to have showered, and even fills a plate with food before coming over.

"What's happening today? Where is everyone?" he rasps, squinting at us and blinking, apparently still recovering from last night.

"Home today," says Peeta, smiling at me.

"That's good news," agrees Haymitch, looking slightly less surly. "I've had about as much of this fun as I can handle," he adds sarcastically.

"No offense, Gale," says Peeta, ever polite.

"None taken." Gale sounds a little formal. "Sorry we dragged all of you out and put you through this again. If it makes you feel any better, I think you exhausted everyone else as much as they exhausted you. I heard President Paylor telling Commander Lyme that she thought it would be more efficient to just conference via video from now on."

"Score," says Johanna. "You've effectively managed to alienate everyone around you again, Katniss. And here I thought you were out of practice, being all loving with me…"

"_I_ managed to do that all by myself, did I?" I ask. She sniffs. "Well, it wasn't me," she tells me, "The people in the Capitol seem to adore me." She grins like a shark.

"I don't think you can extrapolate one attendant to the entire governmental team, Johanna," chortles Peeta, clearly having her exploits fresh in his mind as well.

"Loving isn't the first word I'd pick to describe Katniss," smirks Haymitch. "Sorry, girl on fire." I smirk right back at him. "I'll go up against you in that contest any time you like, Haymitch," I say. But for all the snark, it feels good. Everyone sounds like themselves again, and I'm glad for it. Somewhere along the line, I started thinking of the people around this table as my family.

When we finish, Peeta and I climb the stairs to our room to pack the few things that have migrated out of our suitcases. I feel inexplicably guilty because I have so little opportunity to see Gale that it feels like I should be spending these last few hours near him, but even the little conversation we had was exhausting, though I'm glad we were able to have it. He excuses himself and disappears into the bedroom in which he's been staying, anyways. Johanna goes outside to have a smoke and walk her dog. Haymitch is still draining a cup of coffee he laced with something from a flask when he thought I wasn't looking.

I sit on the bed and swing my legs over the side, watching Peeta neatly fold his things into the suitcase he brought. Mine are haphazardly tumbled around my own suitcase, of course. I watch how the sun slanting through the window twinkles off his blond curls and the downy blond hair that covers his arms. Soon we'll be back in our bed. I never attached much meaning to a bed; it was only ever a place to sleep and escape the tension and anxiety that nagged me every day in District 12, but for some reason the idea of Peeta and I having a bed seems like less of a necessity and more of a luxury. As though he senses me, he glances up to see me watching him. I used to watch him like this and turn my face away before he could catch me, but now I meet his gaze directly and smile at him. Smiles feel much more natural on my lips now than they ever did before I met Peeta. He smiles automatically in response to mine. "What?" he asks. I shake my head. "Nothing," I say, "Just glad to be going home." Again, he tracks my thought process easily. "Back to our own house and bed," he says with relish.

"Remember, you promised me we could spend a whole day in it," I tell him, "At least." He stands and stretches, shaking out his bad leg a bit, and crosses to the bed, leaning down and lightly kissing me. I raise one hand to cup his cheek gently, my fingers just sliding up into the fine hairs at his temple. He shivers. "That's one promise I'll be very glad to keep," he says. I can't help myself, and wrap my legs around his waist. "Lay with me for a bit," I implore.

"Gotta pack," he says halfheartedly, but I know he'll do as I ask. Peeta's powerless to resist whenever I ask him for anything, even now. I lean in and kiss the tender spot just above his collarbone. He groans comically. I slide my hand a little deeper into his hair and tug on it a little. "Pretty please, Peeta," I whisper in his ear. I feel that hot feeling slipping down into my belly and throbbing. My belly is always where it ends up when I miss Peeta's touch the most. It gives me goosebumps up and down my arms and legs. It's been all of two days since we've really touched, and I'm still at the earliest stages of our lovemaking where, under all my stress and exhaustion over being here, I want more. I understand why Johanna's so attached to this feeling. Peeta tilts his head to give me better access and closes his eyes. Those long golden eyelashes flutter on his cheeks. I use my heels behind his knees as leverage and pull him tighter against me. I slip the hand that's not in his hair down his chest and then find the hem of his shirt and tickle my fingers underneath. The muscles in his stomach stand out from balancing as I tug him forward. I think he's trying to hold out just to make my life difficult, because I can feel those muscles contract at my touch. I know Peeta's body like I know my own. When he stands his ground, a little smile playing at the edges of his mouth, I unravel myself and lie down on the bed. I pull my shirt up over my head and drop it on the floor, and reach around to unhook my bra, too. When I lie back again, my shoulders and back are bare against the comforter. I used to be nervous being naked around Peeta, but it's faded away by now. When he feels me pull away, he opens his eyes and looks down, and I see the flicker of hunger in the back of them. He sits down on the bed next to where I'm stretching, arching my back up off the bed a little for him.

"What makes you think you can just get what you want whenever you want it?" Peeta asks, and I think about the sensation of his heart, pounding, pressed against mine. I'm sure it's pounding now. I raise my eyebrows to him. "Not interested?" I ask.

"Hmm…" he pretends to think it over, but I see his eyes roving hungrily over my bare skin and I know he's just playing with me. I can wait him out. I grin and run my hands lightly over my own chest, my thumbs lingering over my nipples, making them pucker together. Peeta bites his lip. I continue down to the hem of my pants and tug the buttons loose, wiggling out of them and pulling them over my hips. I push them off the end of the bed with a foot and all that's left is my underwear. Slowly I push them, too, down with my thumbs and raise my ankles out from them, one by one. Last of all, I reach back and tug my hair loose from its braid.

"How about now?" I ask, and close my eyes, and wait.

It only takes a second, and then my head is tugged back, hard, as his hands bury themselves in my hair and pull—not gently, like I do to him, but hard, insistently, the way he knows I like. A small sound of satisfaction escapes me. He bites the place where my shoulder meets my neck hard enough to leave a mark, and I feel my hands gather fistfuls of blanket at my sides as my toes curl. That pounding heart I knew was there finds the center of my chest and meets up with mine, finds its rhythm. Peeta's kissing me everywhere, and roughly, his teeth find my lower lip to tug it out, one hand moving just around my throat under my jaw, light as a butterfly but there, holding my head back in a way that makes the warmth in my belly shoot down my body like a bolt of lightning. I don't resist in the slightest; this is what I wanted. This roughness feeds me somehow, ignites something inside me that feels like a beast roaring at the same time as it melts me into something pliable, moldable, even weak. It's the only time I can be weak and accept it; the only time I can surrender and know things will be okay. Maybe it's unorthodox; I wouldn't know. Johanna's not the most reliable source of information on mainstream behavior, being as how she's so far out in her own world too. But my body knows what it wants and has all along, and what it wants is to draw this roughness out of Peeta, who I know is so gentle at heart that he would never hurt me, never truly humiliate me, but who plays at it because he knows, as usual, what I need. And because he, too, likes the way it feels, I think. It feels real, not like he's faking it for my sake. Maybe this kind of emotion can't be faked. His other callused baker's hand finds its way between my legs and closes over me, and I gasp audibly. Somewhere in the back of my head I know that we should be quiet, because of Gale, but it seems so far away. When his fingers first find their way inside me, a way they know all too well by now, my breath hitches and I feel the sounds building in my throat. Peeta's hand shifts over my mouth.

"Shhh," he whispers, and I find that this is so hard, this silence. My eyes fly open and find his blue ones, above me, and he nods in approval. I fix my eyes to his the way he likes and force the sounds back down my throat. I shudder all over with the effort as he moves his fingers.

"Put your hands on me," he whispers, and it's only then that I realize I've been so paralyzed with pleasure that they're still clutching the blankets for dear life. They spring free and in a second, Peeta's shirt is over his head too and they're fumbling shakily at his belt. His teeth catch my nipple and hold. I'm grateful that he's keeping his hand on my mouth, because only that firm press is forcing me not to cry out.

When Peeta too loses his clothes to the floor, he shifts off me and lies behind me, my back to his chest, the way we do when we're about to sleep. I'm confused at first. He keeps one hand over my mouth the entire time, and I'm panting into it. The other parts my legs, eases one up over his own and back, and then I understand, in the moment that he bites the back of my neck and pushes into me. I'm so turned on at this point, by his wandering hand and his teeth and that feeling of pressure that forces my voice back into my chest and seems to amplify every sensation I can't voice, that his movement is easy. When he feels my whole body go rigid, he takes his hand away and kisses my earlobe softly, kindly. My Peeta, this balance between salty and sweet we find in bed together. "Are you okay?" he whispers, ever the gentleman. I swallow and nod as he presses slowly deeper. The sensation is new, and I don't like not being able to see his face, so I crane my head around to find his eyes. I see in them all the sensation I feel coursing through me, and I can tell by the quickness of his breath how far gone he is, too.

"Keep quiet, or I'll put it back," he whispers, teasingly. I nod frantically again, but I'm not sure I have the willpower to be silent without help. He moves deliberately inside me so as not to knock the head of the bed back against the wall and give us away. Our feet find one another's and twine together. My head, sweaty strands of hair falling over my face, falls back limp on the pillow as he nuzzles into my back, kissing between my shoulderblades, panting and groaning quietly into my hot skin, breaking his own rules.

"You're…cheating…" I gasp, as his fingers find the sensitive place between my legs and begin a circular rhythm that matches the movement of his hips as he presses into me.

"Be good and do what I told you to do," he laughs softly.

"Yes, Peeta," I whisper back, unable to stop myself from smiling, but melting at the sweet taste of the words in my mouth that I will only say for him and no one else.

We're getting better at lasting a little longer, although I can never say I'm fully sated by the time Peeta finishes. It occurs to maybe that maybe we should do it more, and he can teach his body to last longer, because when I feel his hand clench down on me, when his bite finds my shoulder again and digs in until I see shooting stars, I feel a sense of loss almost immediately. I'm still throbbing, goosebumps covering me from head to toe, shaking my head dazedly as though by wish alone I could make it last longer.

Peeta collapses, panting, behind me, and wraps his arms around me tight as my endorphins begin to crash and I feel cold. All except one part. The part where we're still connected is still hot, and it makes me squirm. In the heat of the moment, Peeta's fingers fell away, and now I want them back. I bite my lip, wanting to ask him to finish what he started, but before I can, I feel the kisses begin to trail down my spine, and they silently make their way down to the triangle of my back between my hips before Peeta flips me and a soft "mmm" sound escapes me, because I know what happens next.

It only takes five minutes or so for Peeta to finish me…maybe not even that long. I'm already primed for him to begin. When my orgasm crests, I bite down on the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood, determined not to tarnish the peaceful morning for any of us, not even Gale. Peeta rests his head on my belly and closes his eyes, his head moving up and down with my breaths. I reach out my fingertips, stretching just far enough to hook the end of the extra blanket that hangs over the top of our bed, and shake it out over the two of us. This is one time he doesn't need to ask me to be quiet, because all I want is to lie here and listen to our breathing, together, safe. Safety seems like such a luxury…not something that we must have, but something we've been granted as a gift for fighting so hard. And even then, our determination was never a guarantee. _Luck_, I think, as I begin to drift, _maybe it all just came down to luck. _

"Time to get up," he whispers, and I feel strong, steady arms where I didn't before, wrapped around my chest, holding me close. I don't remember how he got back up there, which means I've probably been sleeping. The blanket is tucked into our chins, forming a small cocoon of warmth in which we dwell together. I groan. "Five more minutes," I mumble, and snuggle down deeper into the embrace. Peeta laughs. "Just like a kid before school."

"Mmmhmm," I respond, already drifting again. All of this week is catching up to me now. It will be a miracle if I stay awake on the train. He gives me a few more minutes, but I can't bring myself to actually sleep again since I know we have to go soon. Finally I sit up and stretch, reaching for my clothes on the floor, because outside of Peeta's arms and our hollow, I'm cold. The sun is high in the sky. Peeta's right…time to go.

We drag our luggage down the stairs and we're the last ones there, my eyes still red from sleep. A black car is already idling outside, and Johanna has remembered to snag the food from the fridge, and is packing it neatly into a brown paper bag. There's no sign of Gale, and I assume he must have headed back to Hazelle's to escort them to the station. Haymitch glances up at us, but we must have succeeded, because there are no snarky cracks about implied sex from anyone, just looks of determination to finish this journey. It's easier for everyone else, at this point—their farewells here are over, the few they had. I steel myself for one final set, but I don't look back as we file out the door. I won't miss this house, and I won't miss the Capitol. It's only the people I'll miss. Mutt jumps into the car last and I think, amused, about how much vacuuming they'll have to do to get all that yellow fur out again once we're done. He lies his head on Johanna's lap, and she's uncharacteristically quiet for the ride back to the station. The train will drop her off first, before continuing on to 12. Johanna I will miss, too, but she comes to visit pretty regularly now, plus she'd laugh at me if I ever got emotional over her departure, anyways. The ride to the station seems to be shorter in reverse, as if time is conspiring to bring us back. When I glance at the clock hanging from the station wall…a station that's relatively quiet at noon on a weekday…I see that we'll already be boarding soon. One of the Capitol's silver high-speed bullet-nosed trains waits on the platform, and beside it, Vic holding Posy's hand, is Gale's family. To my surprise, I see tears in Hazelle's eyes. I don't remember the last time I saw Hazelle cry. Out of respect and uncertainty, I hang back a bit, and the others stop behind me.

"Out there with no mother…" I hear snatches of conversation, "Are you sure…"

Gale's low voice is harder to make out, but he reaches out and tenderly wipes her face with the edge of one sleeve. "…never…don't worry…people that care…"

Hazelle takes a deep breath and stands up tall, the way Gale does when he's trying to get it together again, and nods. "Just haven't…awhile…who knows when…"

Gale hugs her, and he must be whispering, because I don't catch any more. The others aren't close enough to hear, plus they don't have a reconstructed ear, and I'm glad. Peeta's the most perceptive though, and I'm sure he knows what's going on. I give them a minute and then say, louder than I need to, "Ready?" so they know we're coming.

When I make it out onto the platform, there are no tears in sight. Hazelle is smiling, and Gale and Rory each stand at one side, one arm around her waist. The door to the train car slides open, and an attendant, wearing the green that all the train attendants wear, stands ready at the door. Another attendant steps down to the platform and begins to carry our bags inside. I hug the kids, one by one, and Rory surprises me by kissing my cheek and smiling at me. He's as tall as I am now. "You take care of yourself out there, Katniss," he says, and I'm reminded of how Gale was at that age, so like him. "Thanks, Rory," I say, and a thought about the past sails through my mind like a ship in water. _What we did saved him from the Reaping. Saved all of them._

Moments like that make all the hurt and loss worth it.

Hazelle is next as the others say their farewells to the kids, and her arms are like iron bands around me. "If you ever need anything…" she whispers fiercely, but I don't want her to cry again, so I finish her sentence, "I'll call, Hazelle, I promise. I have your number. I'll write, too, I told Gale I would. But I'm okay. I have Johanna and Peeta and Haymitch and Greasy Sae."

"And Buttercup!" adds Posy, and we all laugh. Hazelle nods and leans up to kiss my other cheek, and I grasp her hands tightly and will myself not to cry either, if only because I don't want to set a bad example. I'm so exhausted that it doesn't take much to bring crazy emotions forth, I think. I try to remember that with the transit system improving every week, I'll be able to come back, even if for only a day or two, if I want to. It's just building the mental fortitude that's hardest. "Don't make me worry about you, either, Hazelle," I smile to her. She cups my cheek in her hand again and I close my eyes, because despite everything, I miss that touch every day—the touch of a mother. "I'll take good care of her," says Gale, and she hands me off to him. He was on the platform to meet us when we came in, too. My first glance to him then constricted my stomach, making me nauseous. I made sure when we walked in that I spaced the others in between us, so he couldn't get too near me. Now when I reach up and hug him, my stomach contracts for a different reason, but it's all complicated in my head and it makes it hurt to try to work everything out, so I resolve to go to the woods and think about it for awhile when we get back home. In the moment, I just breathe him in, and find a tiny corner of regret that he isn't returning to our woods with me. As with Hazelle, I have to push these emotions back. He doesn't hold on too long, as though he were afraid of making it even harder on both of us.

"I'll write," he says, when we break away, and I nod. "It was good to see you, Gale," I say to him honestly, and I know he knows that I mean it, because his smile reaches his eyes.

"You too…Catnip," he says, and I can't help but smile back. We're still broken, maybe, but less.

When we board the train, I spare a single glance back and blow a kiss to them, my surrogate family huddled tightly together on the platform. Posy returns it, and then the train door closes behind us, and I have to turn away.

We sit together in the lounge as the train picks up speed, taking us home again. I don't look out the windows to see the Capitol trail out like a flag as we pass it. Johanna and Peeta settle in for a game of chess, and Haymitch makes the most of his last few hours by sampling a variety of brightly-colored liquors. I pile up a napkin with pecan tarts that someone has left in a display for us, along with other snacks and lunch things. I'm not very hungry, but I nibble on the sugary stuff for a while, and sit at Peeta's feet on the carpet leaning my head against his knee. He strokes my hair absently. Johanna beats him handily. She usually does. We pass the time that way, playing board games and nibbling at the food left out for us, and it startles me when an attendant enters the room to notify us that we'll be approaching District 7, though the clock on the wall tells me that several hours have passed already. It seems like we spent another lifetime in the Capitol this week, but when it comes to the person who's probably most important to my life now, besides Peeta and Haymitch, time is treacherous. But Johanna, of course, will never let any of us get away with weakness. When she hugs me, it's with a thump between my shoulderblades hard enough to hurt.

"Ow, Johanna," I complain, and then she squeezes my face between her hands until my lips mush into a pucker, and moves it back and forth. "Don't worry, brainless, I'm sure you'll find something to live for once you finish moping about me. Peeta's an okay runner-up, I guess."

"No one knows how to give a compliment like you, Johanna," says Peeta from behind me. She turns to him. "You take care of her." Her tone is fiercer, more commanding. In a lower voice, she adds, "Yourself, too, Peeta." He pulls her into a hug. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be back to aggravate us all and provide us with inappropriate details about your personal life pretty soon, Johanna." He bends down to scratch her dog's head, and he thumps his tail against the wall. Haymitch hugs her roughly. "Same goes, Johanna," he grunts.

"Nah, I'm all good," says Johanna. "I was thinking maybe I'd spend some time over at the mill when I get home. Reminds me of how things used to be, before. Plus, everyone always needs new wood to put all the buildings back up, so." She shrugs. But before she steps off the train, hauling her own bags as she's waved the attendant away, she turns back to me and I see the fleeting look of love that passes between us in her eyes as clear as day. For a moment, she looks like that vulnerable girl without the hair, passed out in her hospital bed, teary at the smell of fresh pine needles, and then those deep brown eyes resolve into their determination once more and she tosses a careless salute back to us. Just before the train door slides shut, I hear her call back.

"Oh, also, you guys were much quieter this morning when you were fu…" The airlock of the door seals off the last word, but I'm laughing. Last word, as always.

And then, there's us. Greasy Sae and Delly await us on the platform of 12, Delly waving enthusiastically and all but jumping up and down. To their credit, they don't ask questions, not even Delly. They each pick up one of our bags, despite our protestations, and walk us home, telling us about the progress that's been made in 12 this week, the new shipments of food, the bakery, which is almost finished. Peeta looks happy. My feet feel right again on the familiar paths that lead to town, where we take a few minutes to buy the essentials, like milk and cheese and bread, and then back to our house. I walk them, as I have for years, without even thinking about it. Buttercup's been yowling for us. Delly's been helping one of the last seamstresses in town to do repairs and mend things, to earn some money for her family and keep her hands busy. Greasy Sae has already delivered a pot of stew, with actual beef in it, to our kitchen for tonight. I kiss her cheek and thank them both when we reach the entrance to the Victor's Village, promising that once we've rested up we'll meet up and fill them in on the details, since they're obviously curious, though restrained. I'm practically stumbling through the door by the time we've dropped Haymitch off with an invitation to a late dinner, and the house is filled with the smell of beef and vegetables and gravy simmering on the stove. Buttercup twines around our ankles, meowing for attention, even from me. Our house looks the same as ever. Greasy Sae also took the time to stack our fireplace with wood, so we shake out our comforter that I missed so much in front of it and Peeta lights the wood, and as the sun sinks below the horizon and our district is shadowed again for the day, we lie together with Buttercup, watching the flickering flames that our fancy decorative Capitol fireplace couldn't produce. This is the difference between there and here—the Capitol is cold, but home is warm. The Capitol is the past, and against all the odds, I still feel in my heart that 12 is the future for us. For the first time now, I'm allowing myself to savor the hope, instead of cringe away from it. It's no longer a gamble—Peeta's life, or my own? Somewhere people probably go through each day taking it for granted that the sun will rise and set and rise for them again, but I feel that we are luckier for looking at each sunrise and sunset and remembering that they are gifts we once thought we'd never have. How far we've come just from that time Peeta found me out in the snow, broken in pieces, wanting to surrender more than anything in the world. Before Peeta helped me learn to love. Tomorrow, there's rest. The day after, there's my woods. And after that? I don't know. But for the first time now, I'm finally looking forward to finding out.

To finding out what can possibly lie in wait for us, and meeting it, together.


	25. Epilogue

Epilogue:

In the end, I surprise everyone and make the decision myself without coercion. It's worth it when I see the pure light that enters Peeta's eyes when I tell him what I've known for only a few weeks. In all our years together and the unyielding, interminable, devoutly loyal love he's shown me, I have never seen this light before, and I know that I will not forget it to the end of my days. It is a joy that is inexpressible in words. I know, seeing it, that I've made the right choice, and it's infectious; my heart fills with light.

I announce it casually, over breakfast at our big round kitchen table in the nook that faces east and fills with the rising sun by which Peeta can be found painting some mornings before he heads out to run the bakery. We finished moving into the new house we built together over a year ago, but there are still boxes stacked haphazardly around the place because I'm too lazy to unpack them and too busy with school to care. For a few years now, after pouring myself idly from one job to the next like water passing from cup to cup, I've been teaching at the spotless soldiers' academy that stands close to where the Hob once stood, all those years ago. Upon turning eighteen, citizens all over Panem have the free will to enlist as Guards or Soldiers. Guards serve as a type of general benign protective force—they do everything from responding to national crises, to aiding citizens around the districts who suffer a tremendous loss of some kind, to patrolling districts, keeping an eye out for any minor trouble and resolving it, should it arise. They're trained in a variety of skills including first aid, mediation, physical fitness…and wilderness survival, of course. I never had to apply for the job. Commander Arya, a silver-haired Victor who won the Hunger Games about ten years before we did, approached me specially about it, since she's in charge of managing the military forces in 12. "No one else could possibly be better for the job," she told me, as we sat at Peeta's and my old kitchen table, drinking tea as the cat rubbed around our ankles. Buttercup died at the ripe old age of 15 and was buried in our garden of Prim's namesake flowers, but of course one day Peeta came home with a tiny calico kitten and I couldn't possibly make him give it up. Unlike Buttercup, she adores me.

I accepted the offer, and so four days a week I teach courses on hunting, tracking, trapping, moving efficiently and silently in a forest, edible plants, climbing, even animal physiology. I share whatever I know, all those things that saved me time and again. I still haven't gotten accustomed to the respect that follows me to this day; my students always sit up straight in their chairs or on the forest floor and listen attentively. Of course, as soldiers, they are uncommonly focused and purposeful. Their purpose gives me purpose, and the work suits me. I enjoy it immensely and I plan to stay for a long time. It keeps me busy and though, to this day, we receive a stipend from the government as both former Victors and war veterans, it pays well. Peeta and I have stashed away quite a bit of money. We used some of it to help my mother buy a new house across town from us. After many years, she returned to 12, now outfitted with a gleaming modern hospital. She's in her late fifties now, and works as head nurse. We have lunch every Sunday afternoon, just she and I. The old wounds have mended. I laugh more easily now and the ghosts of the past no longer thicken the air we breathe. Actually, I've probably never been closer to her than I am now. It's good to have her nearby once more.

Gale stayed in the Capitol, despite his talk of leaving once the kids were grown. He surprised us and never married, even after all his talk about wanting to, but devoted his life to his work. When Beetee retired several years back, he was made head of Weapons and Technology Development in the Capitol, where he works under President Lyme. We still catch up as often as we have the time, although I'll never like the phone. I rarely travel out there—I will never like the Capitol, either—and he seldom has time off to come here. When I turned 30, he traveled out as a surprise for my birthday. For kicks, we trekked into the woods and found our old nook in the rocks, timeless, unchanged. We don't fit in it anymore, but we sat beside it. Gale is still tall and handsome as ever. I hear he has no shortage of lovers in the Capitol. I feel a sort of distant, abstract love for him now. There's never a day when I don't miss Prim, but the gaping, charred, hateful hole in my heart has mostly healed. Resentment is heavy, far too heavy to lug around. But it took a long time. He picked a few strands of oniongrass and we stuck it into our mouths and chewed. He looked sideways at my hair.

"I'll never get used to that," he said. Impulsively, I'd cut it short for the big birthday. I smiled, because Peeta hated it too, although he's too polite to complain.

We sat in silence for a little while and then a question rose into my throat, unbidden. It's the same one he asked me, a long time ago, in the Capitol when we'd been called back. I remember the moment in perfect clarity, standing on the stairs in the boardinghouse more than ten years before. I remember how young and conflicted I'd felt. Now I'm only curious.

"Are you happy?"

Gale's features soften, though he doesn't smile. "Most days," he says. "Are you?"

I nod.

"I always wished that for you," he says, abruptly. "Even if it wasn't with me."

I know this is true. I take his hand and our fingers twine together, firm and strong and warm. I lean my head on his shoulder and I feel him exhale.

"No one will ever take your place," I tell him. I'm not looking at his face, but I can feel him smile nonetheless.

"I love you, Catnip," he says, matter-of-factly.

"I love you, Gale," I respond, without hesitation.

His mother, Vic and Posy still live in the Capitol. Posy works for the ministry responsible for news and media, and loves it. She's willowy and stylish and outgoing and gorgeous. She still lives with Hazelle and helps around the house. Hazelle retired early at all the kids' insistence, after years of working her fingers to the bone to care for all of them, plus me and Prim, of course. She volunteers for a number of causes and keeps an enormous garden, several Mockingjays, and a shaggy bearlike dog who follows her everywhere. Her house is filled with warmth and light, and I never fail to drop by on the rare occasions I'm in town. With the children working, particularly Gale, she'll want for nothing, which she deserves. Vic has revolutionized architecture in the Capitol after an early start, like me, on the rebuilding crews after the war. He advanced up the ladder and now is in charge of designing new buildings for the Capitol. He gained many fans by subtly altering the underlying known structures, changing the flavor of the city post-war into something newer, softer and less menacing, with far more art and parks filled with wild, untamed trees and flowers. Rory enlisted in the Panem Guard as soon as he was old enough, and was stationed in 7. He's married now, with three young kids. Sometimes he spends time with Johanna, and they've grown to be good friends. All of the kids are responsible to a fault, of course.

Johanna and I speak often, and we visit one another frequently. For the rest of her life, she'll have to take pills to balance her state of mind, as we've discovered after several disastrous attempts to alter her regimen. Out of all of us, she's the one who held the war closest to her heart. The torture never really left her, and to this day she has trouble trusting anyone but the closest of friends, a mindset with which I empathize. She brushes off her removal with her usual acerbic wit and a level of energy that's enviable. I've been trying to convince her to move closer to us for ages. Eventually, once the education system was really up and running, Johanna returned to school at a higher level—what was once called "university"—and studied the human mind.

"I want to understand why I'm so messed up!" she'd told us cheerfully, but she'd excelled. She even earned an advanced degree, although she doesn't use it. She's helped manage a series of new mills erected in her district after the war, but she only works in them intermittently. Mutt passed away—she cried bitterly for weeks—the year I turned 28, so one day Peeta and I arrived as a surprise on her doorstep with a tiny black puppy our neighbor's dog had. Like that long-ago bow around Lady's neck, I tied a tiny red-spotted ribbon on the pup. When she opened the door, I held her out in both hands and Johanna clapped her hands to her mouth in delight and then gathered the dog in her arms. Timber's getting on in years now, but Johanna's dogs have always been an inexpressible comfort and a stabilizing force in her life. She spends a lot of time hiking in the woods with Timber, sometimes for days at a time, camping out along the trail. Once I went with her and we had a grand old time in the woods hunting, telling stories, and melting chocolate on bread around the fire, drinking wine out of chipped glasses.

"Remember that time I visited you in 12 and we got trashed on white liquor?" she asked me, sitting around our fire circle. The autumn chill is in the air and a single cloak is wrapped around the pair of us. I liked our matching haircuts. Johanna was the one who'd cut it for me.

"How could I forget?" I say, smiling. "I was mad at Peeta that time. But remember how sick I got afterwards?" She chortles.

"Yeah, you were a big old baby then!" she says. "I just wanted to corrupt you." She winks. "I hadn't had any fun in such a long time. When we started hanging out it was almost a foreign feeling for awhile. Imagine, Katniss Everdeen introducing fun, of all things, into people's lives."

She spends a lot of her time working informally with homeless animals, collecting them at her house, raising orphaned kittens and finding them homes, splinting the broken wings of birds she finds, nursing other peoples' sick dogs back to health. Out of all her scattered pursuits, I believe this is when she's the happiest. Peeta says that Johanna will always be running from herself, trying to fill quiet hours with constant work instead of thoughts and memories. She never stops moving. She certainly has had some of the most beautiful men and women I've ever seen as lovers. Like Gale, she never wants for lovers, but also like him, she doesn't seem to seek them out. After all that's been, those of us who were in the thick of the war and seen what we have seen seem to be even more solitary creatures than we were originally. But I can't say that Johanna seems unhappy. Her nightmares are intermittent, but so are ours, even after all this time. I make sure to stay on her radar and check in. We write letters.

Haymitch is creeping out of middle-age now, although none of us talk about it, because I can't imagine a life without him after so many years. He gave me away when we got married, and he did it both sober and with joy, which showed me more than anything else how much he's cared about both of us over the years. Haymitch was always hoping that Peeta and I would succeed; it just took me some time and maturity to realize it. After we moved into the new house, he too left the Victor's Village to where the Capitol planted it, and moved into a smaller apartment in town. I think it does him good to be around people on a regular basis. His trauma from the Games and the wars never really healed. I would like to be able to say his alcoholism went away, but it never did. I understand, though. We all did what we needed to do, and it was as simple as that. We helped him move and we make it a point to visit him regularly. Greasy Sae, almost blind now but as spry as ever, lives a few doors down and also reassures us periodically that she's checking in on him, and we pay for a housecleaner so it doesn't get too foul. We still bicker, but the venom has drained out of it. It took me a long time to truly understand the weight of some of the decisions he had to make, the intention behind everything that happened so rapidly I struggled to process it for years and years. I needed some distance and some time. I expect everyone begins to have a new outlook on life after they've lived more of it. Haymitch had to make terrible choices that I never would have wanted to make. But one day in midwinter, he asked me for a favor—just me, not Peeta—and I obliged him. In his old backyard, out in the Village where no one would see, we built a bonfire. When the flames were leaping as high as our heads, we began to throw the tapes into it. Years and years of Hunger Games blazed into the sky, reduced to the ashes that once marked our district. These ashes were our triumph, the counter to all the cruelty that had been done to us. When it was done, we raised our faces to the moon and howled—Haymitch for himself, and me for him. After years of reliving his pain, being drawn back to watching again and again, helpless, he finally found it within himself to let at least this one small part go, and on that night, I felt hope that something like peace might still come, someday.

Peeta and I were infrequently asked to return to the Capitol to serve on committees, help make governmental decisions and contribute to the restabilization and morale reinforcement of the citizenry, and mostly, we did. It got easier over time, though to this day I will not step foot within sight distance of the President's former mansion. It's a museum now, and a memorial to those who died, I think, but I will never go there. I still can't bear to return to the place my little sister died. It doesn't ache like it used to, but I often dream wistfully of what it would have been like if she'd lived, what kind of life she would have and how it would be to have a sister. Johanna fills a little of that last hurt, but it will never be the same, of course. After a few years, the requests from the Capitol tapered off as leadership became more stable and a new generation of kids began to grow up. The Mockingjay was no longer needed, and I was glad to return to the quiet of 12. I hear they teach about us in the history classes in school now, which feels a bit odd. Peeta keeps more careful track of the political goings-on than I do, and occasionally reports back some interesting tidbit. We've been at peace since what they call the Second Panem War ended, and the country has prospered for the new form of government—though those in power do not always agree, the people's ability to be heard has mitigated the choices that are made at the highest levels. We now vote for those who represent us in government, and the government has to earn our votes and our trust, a system that suits me fine. I cast my ballot for President Lyme, of course, when she first ran.

Now and then, I'll call Annie to say hello. Though we're not close, we'll always share that bond of Finnick, who I never stopped missing. His son is a remarkable facsimile, sharing his sea-green eyes and golden skin, though Nerites has Annie's dark, wavy hair. He's a young man now, and if lovers swarm Gale and Johanna, they positively mob Nerites. I've only seen him a few times in the past ten years, but he has Annie's gentle spirit and Finnick's rollicking humor. Peeta and I tell him stories about his father when we're in town. District 4 erected a statue of Finnick in the town square not long after his son was born, to Annie's joy. Nerites has grounded Annie, made her more practical and attentive to the world. Made her more _there_, somehow. Once Nerites was in his teens, she remarried, to a fishing captain who brings her flowers and loves her son like his own. The three of them made a close family together, like Peeta and I.

And then there's Peeta.

My air of casualty belies my own pounding heart; it's manufactured for the sole purpose of seeing the look on Peeta's face when the words escape my mouth. He hasn't known that I'd stopped taking my pregnancy-control pills. I didn't tell him. I didn't have to. Peeta has never pressured me, but I know what he's wanted all these years, since before we were even married. I never thought it was a possibility for me, and his love for me is so vast that it made it not matter for a long time. It was one more thing that Peeta would give up for me, if I made that choice. After years of peace and quiet in our rebuilt district, as the nightmares slowly began to fade (though they never fully left for either of us, and I suppose they never will) and my mother returned to us and our marriage remained strong and wonderful, after years of being witness and subject to Peeta's endless kindness, gentleness, affection and steadiness, I quietly made another decision.

"I'm pregnant."

The words drop like small stones into the companionable air. Peeta is reading the paper. He grows very still and I know he both heard and believed, immediately. It's not the kind of thing I would say as a joke. He doesn't ask how. He doesn't ask why. He looks up and I just see that enormous earth-shattering light pour into his eyes. I truly believe that if he'd been standing, I would have had to catch him as his knees gave way. His lips part but no words come out, and then I'm smiling, I'm smiling and coming around the table to him and kneeling beside his chair, and I take his big hand and put it on my belly, which still isn't big enough to show, although it will be.

"I'm pregnant," I say again. "I'm going to have our baby."

He puts his other hand down to me, cupping my belly in both, and then he slides off the chair and slumps to the floor in front of me and he's kissing me, kissing me and holding on to my belly and as he scoops me up, I feel his tears on my cheeks, and then I feel my tears on my cheeks, and we're laughing and crying and then he's hurrying me up the stairs as I tip my head back and laugh, and then we're making love, sweet and urgent, and it's like no other sex we've had in all these many years together. Peeta whispers, "Say it again," in my ear over and over as we rock together, and I think at the time that this is a story I'll have to tell my child one day, the kind of love that they were conceived in.

It's not all roses. Throughout the pregnancy I nurse a constant fear of the unknown—of losing the child, of having the child, of being a mother. Sometimes Peeta has to help me catch my breath. He remains the steadying force that he has been from the first day he entered my life, when we were still children ourselves. He's my coach and my champion and my best friend. With his help, and my mother's, I make it through. A new chapter begins for us when she is born on July 4th—an antiquated holiday once called "Independence Day." Sasha Primrose Everdeen Mellark. She has my hair and his eyes. Haymitch is her godfather, of course. Five years later almost to the day, Noah Malcolm is born, after Peeta's youngest brother and father who died in the bombing. Noah has Peeta's hair and my eyes, to our delight. And when Noah is born, with Peeta's blessing, it's Gale I ask to be godfather. For the first time in years, I see the twinge of tears in his eyes, the first time he holds my son. I hope—I think—they're tears of happiness, for us.

The light in Peeta's eyes when I first told him about the germination of our daughter as a tiny seed was worth all the fear, the uncertainty, the anxiety about what I'll tell them now that they're getting old enough, especially her, to understand the meaning of the phrase "The Hunger Games." Now that they're old enough to be concerned on those nights when one of us still wakes up moaning or calling out or crying, before the other can leap to attention and comfort. They're not babies anymore. But neither are we. We have lived through just about everything someone can live through, and come out the other side. Together. I greet every day with a silent thank-you for Peeta. No matter how difficult the memory or dark the day, for either of us, there is the other. We no longer need words to communicate, after all these years of marriage. We instinctively understand one another, and the love that exists under this roof makes everything else possible.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow. _

I have a blessed life.

_***Note from the author: _

_I want to say thanks to everyone who's followed TL&N all the way through to the end. It's been a great experience to write and I never expected my first fic to get half a million views! Taking some time off writing now, but hope to be back with another one someday. Hoping it will be all about Johanna. ;)_

_Happy holidays!_


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